


I Breathed a Song Into the Air

by azhdarchidaen



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Aromantic Character, Aromantic Legolas Greenleaf, Asexual Character, Asexual Legolas Greenleaf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Internalized Arophobia, Platonic Relationships, Sea-longing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen
Summary: Since hearing the calls of the gulls at Pelargir, Legolas has felt the pull of the sea. It is a dull ache most times, but he knows someday in the future he will still follow it. Stronger than that, however, is the call of the friendships he has formed, and wistful as he may get thinking about going West, he can't imagine leaving any of the people he knows and loves behind to make the journey. Besides, as an elf, he has more than time enough to spend with those who are like family to him before pursuing anything else.But when a well-meaning conversation makes Legolas begin to doubt if his place in his friends' lives is as secure as he thought, the question grows more complicated. He doesn't want to leave Middle Earth just yet, but if the friends he wants to stay for will always have other priorities, will he even be welcome? Or is he asking too much by hoping they'll anchor him a little longer yet?
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Merry Brandybuck & Legolas Greenleaf, Sam Gamgee & Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 63
Kudos: 74





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This might be a slightly unconventional note to lead with even before getting to the story, but it's something that's pressed on my mind while planning and writing this fic, so I felt like placing it first was a reasonable enough move. 
> 
> Aro stories are not always treated with the most care, so I would like to lead this story with a promise: everything turns out okay. At its core, this is a story about people who love each other very much. At times the characters may question that, but I hope that none of my readers -- aromantic or not -- ever worry that I intend for it to be anything but that. I hope I can tell a story that resonates with some of the difficult parts of the aromantic experience, for the sake of putting more of those stories into the world, but I never want it to come across as one that dwells in the negative as being inevitable.
> 
> With that, I am excited to share it with you all. Happy reading.

_Minas Tirith - Mid-year's Day, Year 3019 of the Third Age (1419 S.R.)_

Of the wedding of King Aragorn Elessar and Queen Arwen Evenstar it would later be said that, despite the circumstances of only months before, the celebration wanted for nothing. Perhaps it was that after suffering through war, the people threw themselves into celebration with a fervor that can be difficult to replicate in those who have only known peace. Perhaps it was that, though things were still sparser than one might expect in a time that had seen less strife, so welcome was the occasion that it stood out in the minds of those in attendance as lavish nonetheless. Or perhaps, as happens with events that involve so many of a stature preserved in legend, people have simply embellished a bit.

Gimli, son of Glóin, knew nothing of the stories people would later tell of the event -- or if he foresaw them, he was wisely savoring the moment instead of dwelling on an imagined future. The wedding of a King was a momentous occasion, but the wedding of a friend was something far dearer. He counted himself very lucky to be present at a celebration which was both. Seeing Aragorn, who was like a brother to him after all they had been through together, alight in such a way as he had been the whole evening was a picture Gimli would treasure until the end of his days.

The actual celebrations were a sprawling, winding thing, growing smaller in size after the banquet that had followed the ceremony itself, but still trickling well into the evening, which was where things had turned now. As it stood, the bustle of the main event had quieted and a more intimate gathering of some of the the closest friends and family to the newlyweds was underway. Though the hall -- still adorned in silks of the colors associated with the realm of Gondor itself, because Minas Tirith was in many ways still celebrating the renewed marriage of King to country as much as it was that of King to Queen -- on other occasions might have dwarfed the handful of merry-makers remaining with its cavernous arched ceilings, tonight, they rang with laughter in such a way that even the small group gathered at the table nearest the fire with some of the last drinks of the evening managed to make the room feel full.

“...And after that,” the current speaker, gesturing a bit unevenly with a half-filled wine glass, was saying. “You could watch him going around the gardens for weeks, feeling the tips of his ears as if searching for points. It seemed as if even after Ada explained things to him he didn’t quite accept it as truth for a few more years.”

“Nay, Elladan!” came the voice of his brother from across the table. “I think, you’ll recall, that he suggested was expecting a sudden transformation that would cause him to look much like the rest of the residents of Rivendell -- save, of course, his mother.”

As the twin sons of Elrond both began to laugh -- along with several others at the table, the pealing laughter of several of the hobbits’ rising loudest -- Gimli turned his attention towards Aragorn. Indeed, in the years since, clearly no such transformation had occurred -- but the man’s rounded ears, typical of his own race, did seem to be tinged red.

“You speak as if being the only child of Men in a realm of elves was not further confused by the promise of two elves I trusted that I could speed the growth of my ears along by tending to them thus,” he said, equal notes of amusement and slight embarrassment in his voice.

Elladan looked to him, cocking his head in such a way that, on the matter of ears, his own, which were the much greater size typical of elves, twitched slightly as he moved. “We _did_ say something of that sort, didn’t we?” he said. “I’m afraid you just posed too great an opportunity for us, Estel.”

Aragorn simply grabbed his own wine glass and took a long drink. It was the latest of many that evening. Seated nearest his right, Pippin clapped his hands together.

“Right then, whose turn is it next?” he said, an infectious grin gracing his features. Gimli had noted that the lad seemed to be taking particular delight in the merriment being taken at the expense of Aragorn and Arwen this night, but couldn’t blame him -- they were amongst good company, and such jokes among friends were to be greatly enjoyed.

“Not either of the twins’,” Aragorn said, setting down his glass. “As Elrohir’s was most recent, and both of them have gleefully taken turns enough at my expense, in particular, besides.”

“Is it to be a toast in honor of the Queen, then?” came Legolas’ lilting voice, and within moments every eye at the table had been turned his direction. It seemed many were curious to hear whatever he might have to say about Arwen.

“Do you intend to besmirch my reputation in the manner my beloved’s has been attacked tonight?” she said, an amused tone to her voice that implied she had enjoyed the latter as much as anyone -- and a quirk to her lips that seemed to say she’d almost like to see him try the former.

“Not so thoroughly as that,” Legolas said, smiling, “I think Aragorn has had the misfortune of numbers against him this night.” 

It was true -- while the twins had certainly done their part to bring their sister into matters, of the company present (which largely numbered Elrond’s children and the former Fellowship, with a few other scattered friends such as the Lord Faramir) there were more who knew tales of the Ranger-turned-King, and he had both enjoyed their company and, in matters of jest, suffered the consequences. Gandalf, it was certain, knew much of both of them, but had sworn off the current contest of toasts that were merely excuses to tell what stories one wished -- most of them, unflattering to some degree. From the amusement crinkling at the corner of the wizard's eyes at each tale, it was clear the objection was not ideological. Perhaps it was just that he had simply too many things he could say -- about everyone present, for that matter.

“It has been unfair odds, I will say that,” Aragorn added. “Go forth with yours, Legolas, I would hear this myself.”

There was a glance between him and Arwen that, Gimli thought, was a sign Aragorn might enjoy the turning of tables an slightly-unbecoming amount.

“Do not get your hopes up, my friend,” Legolas said to him. “It is no story you have not already heard pieces of. But here!” he said, and at this he raised his glass. “To Queen Arwen -- may my father remain forever disappointed this is the capacity at which I attend her wedding.”

At this, Arwen, who had been dangerously close to swallowing some wine of her own, snorted in a most un-Queenly fashion. She succeeded at keeping hold of her drink, but only barely. At her side, Aragorn started laughing heartily, and there was a decided clamor of voices from the rest of the table as well -- which Gimli found he wished to join in on.

“Oh! Oh!” Elrohir chorused, jubilant. “A killing blow!”

“I _have_ heard this one,” Aragorn said, smiling widely. “A good call, my friend.”

“Perhaps it is one you understand, but I find myself entirely lost,” Faramir said, placing his head in his hands slightly. It was not out of shame, clearly, but perhaps as if they might offer more explanation. Though he was as joyous as the rest of them at the occasion, he did seem somewhat out of his element, and had been drinking accordingly.

“What’s that about the Elvenking?” Merry inquired, and Gimli found his own question being asked but had to echo the hobbit nonetheless.

“Yes, what is it your father has to do with any of this?” he said, turning to Legolas next to him. He had grown to respect his friend greatly, of course, but still found the prospect of learning something that sounded perhaps unflattering about King Thranduil -- who Legolas rarely spoke of -- a little too tantalizing.

“I shall leave you to your own conclusions--” Legolas began, seeming amused at the chaos he had sown (and, if Gimli wasn’t mistaken, particularly at the dwarf’s response.) He was interrupted quickly, however, as the growing chorus protested.

“You cannot leave it at that!” Elladan said. “This is a tale worth recounting!” -- at the same time as Pippin indignantly exclaimed “That’s not fair, you must explain, Legolas!”

Suddenly, Legolas seemed hesitant. “It is a long tale in the telling,” he said. “I had not meant to take over this evening with something that occurred so many years ago, and which I would not wish to overshadow the rest of tonight’s merriment.”

“If you had thought such a statement would not be met with questions, you have underestimated the curiosity of hobbits, my young elf -- and perhaps dwarves, too,” Gandalf said, and Gimli caught a twinkle in the wizard’s eye as he looked his way briefly.

“It is really not so long to explain,” Arwen said. “And if Legolas will not, I shall, if only to prevent a riot at the table on my wedding night.”

At her proclamation, the clamor of voices quieter some. She had drawn the attention of her guests.

“Some few centuries ago,” she began, “King Thranduil thought to find Legolas a match and looked towards Rivendell. For the diplomacy of it, more than anything, as from what I understand he thought it would lead to improved relations between his kingdom and Imladris if his son were to wed one of Elrond’s children. It did not, however, as while I liked Legolas’ company well enough, he wasn’t the sort I was ever going to feel for in matters of love.”

At this, her eyes drifted to the one who had succeeded there, Aragorn clearly the focus of her attention. The two smiled at each other softly, and Gimli was fairly certain that, under the table, they had likely clasped hands.

“Oh, but you cannot leave it there, either!” Elrohir said, interrupting the moment. “Your own feelings were but a part of it, Arwen -- perhaps worse was the fact that no one had told Legolas what he was meant to be doing!”

Though the attention of the company had been focused on Arwen as she spoke, it was a quickly shifting thing this night, and Gimli watched as all the heads at the table -- his included -- turned towards the elf at his side. One of Legolas’ ears twitched in what seemed to be a slightly awkward manner.

“My father was unclear about the intention of my visits to Rivendell at the time, yes,” Legolas said, speaking slowly. “I thought perhaps he was interested in me having the chance to befriend some younger elves, as there are so few these days, and it took some time for me to realize that was not the case. Around the time of my third visit, he asked me how my efforts were going and it was revealed to me he had different intentions for the outcome than I.”

“But how could your father not get around to telling you something so important? That seems to me a pretty serious detail to be leaving out!” Sam blurted out, speaking for the first time in a while -- and looking a bit embarrassed after the words had left his mouth. “If you’ll allow me to say so,” he added.

Knowing the hobbit, Gimli assumed Sam was perhaps flustered on realizing that he was criticizing the actions of a king. Gimli, however, found he agreed -- personal opinion of Thranduil aside, it didn’t seem like the best of actions to have taken not as a king, but as a father. 

“It was my own judgment that failed there, I fear,” Legolas said. “As far as I have been able to deem since, he hoped that by placing no imperative on me things might develop more naturally, and I might find romance in my own time. Unfortunately I never quite fulfilled this expectation and things grew to be quite awkward.”

“You are unkind to yourself,” Arwen said, speaking gently, though there was still a note of mirth to her voice -- perhaps from recalling past events, or perhaps from the infectious mood of the table. It seemed likely to be both. “I never felt unfairly treated during the courtship-that-never-was, and I think that though nothing blossomed between us, you handled it in an admirable manner.”

“What our sister means,” Elrohir said, “Is that around the time of his third visit to our home, Legolas apologized profusely to her for having made her acquaintance under false pretenses, however accidentally -- an impressive feat to believe he had accomplished, seeing as the objective was not his own, and Arwen had been told by our own father the nature of the visits from the start. It was the whole reason she was residing in Imladris for a time instead of Lórien!”

“Alas, it still felt I had not been true in my intentions,” Legolas said, a note of protest in his voice. “For otherwise, I might have handled the situation differently!”

“But would you have?” Elrohir teased. “In the time I have known you, Legolas, you have not been one to make advances.”

Gimli watched as Legolas, who in the months the dwarf himself had known him was not one to grow too easily flustered, opened his mouth as if to continue and became stuck there. A slow flush spread across his cheeks as his ears flicked about slightly.

“I did not mean different in that way,” he finally said.

“Of course not,” Elladan said, seeming to note and address the manner in which the other elf had grown tripped up. “Thranduil would have been just as out of luck had he sent you to woo me or Elrohir. My brother simply jests at your expense. It seems no one is safe tonight.”

“Now what do you mean by saying that about Legolas?” Pippin piped up from his own seat.

“Hush, Pip, you know the gist of it,” Merry scolded. “I’m not sure you need to pry further.”

“I think Mr. Merry’s got that right,” said Sam.

“I’m only trying to get a full picture!” Pippin said.

“Sounds simple enough to me,” said Frodo, who was seated near enough his cousins to catch the latter two sentences, which had been spoken in more hushed tones. “I imagine it’s a bit like how things are with Uncle Bilbo.”

The hobbits’ side conversation, however, did not grow to be the focus of talk at the table. Elrohir had begun going on about the great lengths to which Legolas had gone in his apologies, and Arwen’s melodious laugh, growing stronger by the minute, flooded much of the room as she recalled her assurances to him that she took no insult to his actions. Legolas, for his part, was looking significantly less flushed, his color returning to normal as he smiled at Arwen’s defense of his honor in the face of the twins’ teasing. 

Despite this, Gimli found he was preoccupied with the words the hobbits had exchanged. He had only just caught them, as he sat nearer to Legolas and Faramir than where the four were seated. But while he didn’t have the ears of an elf, his hearing was clear enough -- and hobbits, particularly certain ones, were not always the most skilled at quiet or discreet conversation.

Dwarves, by nature -- perhaps because so much of their culture was rooted in stone, which was solid, and fairly unchanging unless one worked to make it otherwise -- were less prone to flighty leaps of conscience than were other races. Gimli felt that his time amongst other company, particularly one so mixed in its people as the Fellowship, had proved this to him. Gossip was as present amongst dwarves as it was any other people with a healthy investment in the doings of their neighbors, but in dwarven families and settlements, it was not a matter of speculation. Dwarvish gossip was built less on assumptions and more on one’s opinions of what they already knew to be solid fact. Where others built their talk on top of the stone, sometimes in leaps and bounds from the rock itself, dwarves looked and appraised it -- judgmentally, at times, of course, but that was simply the way of things. One examined the sturdiness of a position before making their own calls, both in mining and in life. And thus, he was not often one to take someone’s words and construct an entire story about another from them, at least not without hearing it from a source as trusted as the mouth of the individual in question. Thus, a side conversation by hobbits was not something he should find strangely disquieting.

Legolas had spoken of this matter himself, however, even spurring the discussion with the story he had shared, which was the fact at the core of this whole talk that gave Gimli pause. He was familiar enough with individuals who had no desire to wed, as they were common enough amongst his own people. From what he had seen of the rest of the world, he assumed their occurrence cropped up in others as well -- as in the basics of love and marriage it seemed many things were constants amongst the races. After all, was he not attending the wedding of a man and an elf, two unalike in much else but not in that nature? But something about the apparent proclamation that Legolas belonged to such a number as such dwarves he had known struck an odd note with him, though he could not place why.

First, he wondered if perhaps it was that the elf had such a fierce vitality, in a way that one might associate with assorted passions, but quickly dismissed it as the source of his confusion. Though as one who certainly was not among their ranks, too interested was he in folk of all sorts when it came to matters of love, it was not something he could know from experience, he had never noted any less of a drive -- to excel at their craftsmanship, to bear arms and serve with their comrades, or any other pursuit worth pouring oneself into -- in dwarves who had no wish to marry. Nay, Legolas’ devotion to skill with the bow and joy at singing under the stars, not to mention his warmth and protectiveness towards those he called friends -- these were not things that had any bearing on his inclinations, and couldn’t be the reason the discovery sat odd with him.

Thinking back on the conversations he had held with the elf, he also could think of nothing Legolas had ever said that might be contradictory to this talk. Were it that the elf had told him of someone back home, or perhaps expressed a wistfulness for such a person, he might have found in that the source of his confusion. But now as he thought on their many talks, he realized that his friend had never spoken of such a thing -- not even when discussion amongst their company had nonetheless turned romantic directions, such as the hobbits teasing Sam for his Rose back home, or when Éowyn’s affections for Aragorn had been made plain.

Gimli decided that though for some reason he had an uneasy feeling over the revelation, it was not one he could name. It troubled him some, as he did not think himself to be one who had ever harbored any sort of prejudice towards kin -- or friends -- who were different in their inclinations. He had heard of folk who were, and did not wish to be counted among _that_ number. But then why, in the absence of better explanations, did he feel a strange sense, almost like disappointment, on learning the nature of Legolas’ own leanings? He could not explain it.

“The fact that we have remained friends since this,” Arwen was saying, rounding out her commentary, “Is a testament enough to Legolas’ good intentions. This has been a good jest, and amusing to recall on my wedding night, but I will not have there be grief over it.” 

“And now instead of a Prince, you have wed a King!” Pippin declared.

At that, there was another round of laughter. Aragorn, seated at the head of the table, blushed, but soon put an arm around his wife. Both their eyes were filled with mirth, and the mood was infectious. Someone at the other end of the table, though Gimli caught not a glimpse of who, initiated another toast, simply in the form of raising their glass. Pushing aside the strange thoughts that had overtaken him, he lifted his own cup.

“May it be a joyous union!” he called, as others chorused their own well-wishes to the couple, making a conscious effort to bring himself back to the good fortune of the present on this most special of nights.

And with that, he turned his mind to other things for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As another note, the title for this work is taken from the poem "The Arrow and the Song" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (who happens to by my favorite poet). It is perfect for this story -- and Legolas -- in an astonishing number of ways for such just three stanzas, and I highly advise looking it up.


	2. Familiar and Unfamiliar Territory

_ Bree -- August, Year 5 of the Fourth Age (Wedmath, 1426 S.R.) _

When word had come that two of his old companions would be traveling within visiting distance of the Shire, Sam had excepted it would be a joyful occasion. After all, it had been some time since the remaining hobbits of the Fellowship had seen any of the rest of their company, save Gandalf, who now no longer resided in Middle Earth himself. A reunion seemed bound to heighten the spirits of them all. But now that its hour had come, he found himself faced with an uneasiness that had not figured into his expectations.

It was about three weeks ago that he, Merry, and Pippin had received word from Gimli, who apparently was conducting business of some sort with his kin residing in the Blue Mountains, that he and Legolas wished to see them on their return trip, before the elf and dwarf were swept back up into responsibilities of their own in Ithilien and Aglarond. Arrangements were made to meet in Bree, where the travelers would attract less attention -- not that the eyes of the Bree-folk were any less discerning, but their mouths, at least, were more reserved, and they were less suspicious of outsiders than the gossips of Hobbiton. It also means the hobbits needn’t be away from home long to greet them, which served their own interests well. Sam, in particular, couldn't afford to be away from home long, as it would mean leaving Rosie to care for little Elanor, Frodo, and Rose on her own. As it stood, his sister Marigold had offered to help in his absence, but he would never consider imposing on her long.

The trip from Hobbiton had gone smoothly. Sam laughed to think how much more so than his first excursion to Bree, though the weight of it still held enough sway that it didn’t feel so much like laughing at a joke -- it was just a result of that way of looking back on things that sometimes caught you when you traced your old footsteps. Pippin had met him at Bag End, and the two had joined with Merry in Buckland after three days of travel, though not before the younger hobbit had talked his ear off asking whether their friends might note he was looking older now that he had come of age, or if they would bring news of Aragorn or Faramir or other friends with them. He had been quite grateful when the young Took’s cousin became the one to bear the brunt of it a few days into their journey.

Still too, nothing had immediately seemed amiss when they first spied the others, standing under the awning of a blacksmith’s in order to keep out of the downpour that had begun that afternoon. Gimli waved cheerily at them, and with great vigor, when their eyes met on the street, and Legolas, a hood about his face so as to draw less attention to his elven features, laughed that fey laugh of his when Pippin nearly bowled the pair to the ground as he rushed to embrace them.

“Look what has come in with the rain!” the elf had exclaimed. “Does the sky now rain hobbits as well?”

“Rain or worse, we would have come all the same!” Pippin had said, shortly before realizing that as he had rushed to greet the pair he had spoiled some of their efforts to stay dry. He took on a sheepish look.

“Ah! But I have missed you!” Legolas had replied seeing this, and at that point the elf had ruffled Pippin’s hair, which was soaked through, getting a good deal of water on them both.

Heading in from out-of-doors had been the plan all along -- to the Prancing Pony, which caused Sam another pang, but Pippin had been insistent he wanted to enjoy their ale again, and after all, he  _ was _ curious as to the fortune of old Butterbur -- but the party’s relocation was hastened by the inclement weather. It had been shortly after they’d arranged rooms for the night, excited chatter punctuating the affair, and all were beginning to dry off that things had taken a stranger turn.

Just as the group made to re-enter the common room from their lodgings, Gimli had grabbed Sam’s arm, as if to signal him to wait.

“I’d like to speak with you about something, if it’s amenable to you” the dwarf had said in a low voice. A strange expression had entered his eye then. Nervous, Sam thought it looked, though what the nerves could be about was less plain to him.

“Of course it’s alright, but what about?” he’d replied. 

Gimli did not elaborate then. Sam’s eyes had flicked towards Legolas, wondering if his keen elven ears had heard the exchange, as for whatever reason Gimli seemed to be aiming for secrecy, but the excited conversation of the other hobbits, he decided, could have drowned out most anything. Sure enough, it was their eagerness to head to the common room that allowed Gimli the opening he seemed to have wanted.

“You go on,” he had said to the others, “Legolas and I have journeyed long these past days and I need a moment of peace before we begin our reunion in earnest, but I’ll not keep the rest of you from it -- it has been too long for that.”

“But what of your famed Dwarvish constitution?” Legolas had replied, laughing. “I have heard no end of it these past years!”

“Aye, and you’ll hear enough of it again! I shall join the rest of you soon enough.”

Gimli had given Sam a meaningful look, and he understood the implication in his eyes. His desire to act on it, however, was mixed. If his friend wished to speak with him, why the secrecy from the others? He supposed, though, that for the same reasons he was willing to be Gimli’s confidant, he could trust his actions had reason.

“I could keep you company, Mr. Gimli, I’m a bit weary myself,” he’d said, catching a note in his voice that made him wish he was a better liar. Then again, he supposed, he wasn’t really lying -- just not telling the whole truth. It didn’t really feel different though, and that was the part that made his tone quaver all the same.

“I would accept you offer graciously, Master Samwise.”

“You’re sure you’re alright with us going on ahead?” Pippin had asked. “Our journey has had its effects on _ me _ as well -- namely, left me wanting a hearty meal!”

His stomach had punctuated the statement with a well-timed growl, and the whole company laughed. After reassurances that the other two would follow soon, Merry, Pippin, and Legolas took their leave, though not before the elf had given Sam a cheery wave. It made him hope that whatever Gimli had to say wouldn’t take overly long -- he wished to see and speak with both his old friends much before the evening was over.

This was where he now found himself, eyeing Gimli as the dwarf absentmindedly traced the grain of the guest-room table. His friend did not seem overworried, he supposed, though he still had a harder time reading the faces of dwarves than some folk. It was the beards, Sam thought. Much easier to see what a face was telling you when it wasn’t all covered up by beard. Really, he didn’t know what to make of Gimli’s air at all.

He cleared his throat slightly, deciding it wasn’t something worth having nerves over until he knew what he ought to have them for. Hopefully it would be another sort of matter entirely.

“Now then, what’s this you were hoping to talk about?” Sam asked.

Gimli traced the table a moment longer before releasing a sigh, like he’d been carrying some great weight, then spoke himself.

“How do you suppose Merry and Pippin will fare at keeping Legolas occupied?” he asked.

It wasn’t what Sam had been expecting to hear, but he took it in stride. “Well enough, I’d think,” he said. “It’s a been a good few years since we saw either of you, and I’m sure they’re full of things they’re wanting to say. Lots happening in the Shire as of late, you know. The only thing I can think myself is if an elf in Bree is of too much interest to the locals, but of course that’s why Mr. Legolas is keeping his hood up.”

Sam shook his head a little, recalling the last time there had been reason for a stranger to keep their hood up in the same inn. He could always be wrong, but somehow he didn’t think Mr. Butterbur -- or anyone else, for that matter -- would be any better at picking out elves than they had been kings.

“Aye, you’re most likely right. And if not it’s no terrible loss, I suppose. I only want the chance to speak to you some without being interrupted.”

Gimli drew another breath, seemingly for the express purpose of sighing again. The dwarf leaned back in his chair and began fiddling with a large gold bead at the end of one of the braids in his beard.

“I’ll admit I may be asking you something you have few answers to, but of the small number of folk I’d trust with the matter, you seem the most likely to be able to offer me any sort of helpful counsel,” he said.

“You must have an odd question indeed if you think there’s none could help you but me!” Sam exclaimed, wondering what Gimli could possibly have to say.

“Not none, but very few. And I trust you to have a steady manner about it, which is most important to me,” Gimli said. He hesitated, then continued, looking Sam directly in the eye. “By your accounting, would you consider yourself experienced in matters of the heart? I would consider you so, particularly hearing that it sounds things have gone well for you and Mistress Rose.”

Whatever manner of conversation Sam might have tried to imagine from the dwarf, this was certainly not the sort he’d been expecting. For a moment, he could think of nothing to say.

“I don’t think I’m something special, if that’s what you mean,” Sam said, collecting his words. “We certainly work at it, me and Rosie, trying to understand each other and talk things out when we don’t, but that’s what anyone should do. And it’s really only these years since I married her I’ve felt I don’t think my own words over too much in trying!”

“Ah, but your honesty there does you a service, Master Samwise. It’s a delicate matter, as I said, and I need to know any advice I seek is genuine,” he said, before conspiratorily adding, “And you’ve still experience at the matter -- imagine if I brought such a question to the others you came here with tonight!”

At that, Sam laughed. “I wouldn’t be speaking too soon on that front, Mr. Gimli,” he said. “Pippin’s been courting a girl of his own these last few months. Diamond’s her name, from up in the Northfarthing, and they’ll make for quite the pair if he keeps at it.”

Gimli looked surprised for a moment, but a few of the more careworn lines disappeared from his face as he laughed, a real, deep laugh of the kind Sam had missed from his friend since their last parting.

“Ha!” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile. “ _ That _ I cannot yet imagine. I’ll have to speak of it to him later.” But here, his face grew heavier again, not as much as it had been, but still not truly mirthful any longer. “It’s still your advice I’m wanting on this matter, though. Pippin, I think, would not know what to do with it.”

“I’ll not tell him you said that,” Sam said, half in the hope it might restore some cheer to Gimli’s face again. It didn’t quite, though neither did it seem it had failed to land at all.

“In truth,” Gimli continued. “I know not what to do with it myself. It is a matter most unprecedented for me, and offers me few with whom I can speak of it, though the reasons are not one and the same. But I cannot seem to still my heart any more than I can produce answers, and so I find myself entrenched in a strange siege indeed.”

“Mr. Gimli,” Sam said, thinking on how to choose his next words. He was certain there was a part he was missing, since it didn’t seem what the dwarf had said so far should be something that bringing him grief. Simple nerves, maybe, of a sort he had once been accustomed to himself, but not the kind that required such a conversation as this. “Do you mean to say that there’s someone you’re looking to see yourself?”

The pause that followed was long enough Sam worried he’d still not chosen carefully enough, the crackling of the fire the only response for what might have amounted to a minute, or at least half of one, if he’d been counting. Gimli fiddled with his braids again, though in truth his hand had never quite left them. It was just as Sam was thinking he’d speak again himself that the dwarf replied to his question.

“Nay, not see,” Gimli said, his voice low. “Were it not for my reason in seeking your counsel, he and I would still never have made for the easiest of unions, but it matters little. I have fallen for one who would never return such a declaration, and I in turn would never ask him to change himself for my sake. That is the matter I know not what to do with -- how does one ease a heart that wants something it will never have? Long have I grappled with it myself, but little has come to me. I would hear your own thoughts, and hope there is something in them.”

“Well!” Sam declared, “It’s a funny thing to say I’m your best help for! I’m sorry to say I’ve not much experience with that, Mr. Gimli, though not sorry for myself I suppose. I’ll do my best though. I know you say there are few you would trust with this, but surely the rest of our friends are in that number. Have you brought it to Strider? He’s had a share of heartache, even if it ended well. Or what about Mr. Legolas? Surely he knows you best. I know you’re quite close to him.”

Gimli looked at him with an expression of such melancholy that Sam was taken aback. Almost never had he seen the dwarf so full of emotion, though the nature of their travels together meant that when he had, his eyes had usually brimmed with deep sadness. In this case his face was not quite so dour -- rather, it seemed bittersweet, as if he both mourned and treasured whatever he was about to say.

“Aye,” he said, after a long moment. “Perhaps too close.”

It took only a few moments for Gimli’s meaning to become plain, but even as it dawned on him, Sam had to admit his mind was not as attentive towards his friend’s current predicament as he would have hoped. Rather, it had wandered somewhere between Rivendell and Lórien, in the early weeks of the Quest, where it was listening to one of the more intense rows the elf and dwarf had gotten into during their travels. Gandalf had admonished the pair often to put aside their differences in favor of friendship, but though he had shown clear delight after Legolas and Gimli did just that, Sam had his doubts the old wizard could ever have foreseen this.

“How long would you say you’ve been in love with him?” Sam said, eventually voicing the only question he could think to ask. “You pardon me if I say I don’t think it was from the start.”

Gimli gave a low laugh. “No, in that you are right,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How though, can anyone truly account such a thing? Am I to say it was when I first grasped the message my heart had been sharing with my mind for some time? If earlier, how am I to know when it began conveying such messages? On the one hand, it should be a simple answer, but on the other, since as you say, he and I did not have the smoothest of starts to our companionship, it feels as though the whole matter has been a slow journey, concluding to this point.”

“That’s an awful lot of poetry, Mr. Gimli, but I’m not sure it helps your situation much.”

The dwarf sighed. “I suppose that’s the sort of sense I’m looking for, talking to you. If you ask me to reckon the time since I first named the feeling for what it was, I would say it has been… perhaps two years?”

“Two years!” Sam exclaimed. He had imagined it to be something more recent -- from what he knew, Legolas and Gimli had traveled together much in their time, even with their responsibilities to the settlements they governed. Had Gimli been secretly lovestruck the entire time?

“Yes, and all that time I have known not what to do with it. Were it only that we are dwarf and elf that stood in the way, I would still have in me the bravery to confess it to him. His father holds no love for me, nor mine for him, but I am certain Legolas is different in that regard. In the matter of his own desires, however, I fear we are again a mismatched pair, and not in a way that I could in good conscious surmount.”

“If it’s alright asking, is there a reason you’re so convinced? I can’t say I’ve heard him speak on the matter of love much myself,” said Sam.

“Ah, therein is the heart of it.” Gimli said, “I think he has no inclinations of the kind. It is not so much a matter of me being the right sort of person as it is that I get the distinct impression Legolas would court no one -- man, woman, or otherwise. He is largely silent on the matter, as if it is a topic he has few thoughts on, and when it does arise, he does not act as one interested. You may recall the tale we heard at Aragorn’s wedding; I have heard others like it from him in the years since when he has been pressed. I will not repeat much that was shared in confidence other than to say I know marriage is a point of contention for him and his father, and he does not act as one waiting for the right person -- rather, avoiding them as best possible.”

“And it is because you respect the nature of his heart that you find yourself unsure what to do with your own,” Sam said. The picture began to make sense.

“Aye, I am at a loss!” the dwarf said. “I have kept it to myself as best I could, so not to burden him with something I would never ask him to reciprocate, but I find it weighs on me. I fear what impact it may have on my friendship with him, which I do not wish to lose for all the world even if it has become a complicated one.”

“Well, the solution seems clear enough to me, Mr. Gimli,” Sam said.

“Does it?” 

Gimli looked at him, seeming surprised. The firelight reflected in his eyes, seeming almost to be a spark of hope manifested in them. Sam would have to choose his next words carefully so as not to make the task before Gimli sound easy, but nor did he want it to be too daunting in the dwarf’s mind. It would have to be only what it was: necessary.

“Now,” Sam said, “Don’t take me as saying it won’t be hard, but I imagine you’ve already pursued other avenues. I can’t see you having spent the last couple of years doing nothing to try to quell this yourself.”

“I’ve written poetry,” Gimli said, as if it were the plainest answer in the world.

“Has it helped?”

“Only a little,” he admitted. “And even then, I find sometimes the melancholy of my words overtakes me instead of the relief.”

“See, I was sure you’d tried something. I can’t see you entirely losing your wits about this. But as you said yourself, it hasn’t been what you really need. For some it might do the trick, but you’ve proven well enough that sitting on these feelings on your own isn’t the answer. After all, that’s why you’re speaking to me, if I may be so bold as to say so. But while I’m willing to advise you on the matter, I’m not the only one you’re going to have to bring it to, I’m afraid.”

“Your logic is sound enough, Master Samwise, but I’m afraid I don’t entirely follow. Who else do you think I should consult?”

“I think you should talk to Mr. Legolas.”

“I can’t do that, Sam!” Gimli burst out saying. He nearly stood from his seat, then seemed to think better of it, lowering himself to the table once again. “Why do you think I have kept this matter close to my chest these past years? I fear I will only burden him with knowledge he does not want to carry, and then where will we be? -- I with a broken heart, and him with guilt over a matter he should never have had to bear!”

“I never said it was a simple matter, Mr. Gimli, and I wish it could be, but I think you’re wrapping yourself up too much in the idea that, because this is about something so close to your heart, it’s any different from discussing other sorts of disagreements. If you felt you could resolve it on your own, that would be one matter, but you’ve told me yourself that seems unlikely to work. At the same time, you say it weighs on you heavily enough that you fear it could hurt your friendship, something which I am sure Legolas doesn’t wish either. If it were any other matter you felt could threaten that, would you not bring it to him? Should he not know?”

From Gimli’s silence, Sam could still tell the dwarf was thinking, his hand once again fiddling with the beads in his beard. He bore a distant look, but of one who had much to consider, not of one who was not taking his words to heart.

“You said at the start of this you were glad I had some experience with these matters,” Sam continued. “But I’ll say again that most of what I know is that when a frustration threatens to boil over, that’s the point you’ve got to have a conversation about it, uncomfortable as it may be. Me and Rosie have had our moments, happy as we are. One of the reasons I love her is that when those things do happen, we sit down and talk it out properly. I don’t think Mr. Legolas is any less reasonable. I think you two should speak about this.”

“But what if he takes my words as a declaration of love instead of only an admission?” Gimli said. “The last thing I would wish for in the world is to make him feel I am pressing him towards something unwanted”

“Well then! There’s your answer. You’re not asking him to reciprocate your feelings, just to understand you’ve got them. I don’t know what you’ll need to do from there because I can’t say I know what Mr. Legolas will have to say to you, but you’ve made your intentions clear enough to me. You can tell him the same.”

“I must say, Samwise, you do not offer comfortable advice,” Gimli said. Sam was about to speak when the dwarf put his hand up and continued. “But I did say I came to you for your honesty as well. I have not made up my mind on this, as a hasty decision seems a poor one, but I will think on what you have said.”

“I hope it’s a help to you, then,” Sam said. 

“It may yet be. I have no foresight, and this matter is perhaps the most clouded to me any has ever been, but I would be a fool to not to admit I was lost before this, and it would be nigh impossible to be more lost after. In any case, it has been good to speak of the matter with someone. It cannot wholly ease my heart, but you are the first I have told of this. But come,” Gimli said, and here he did stand, pushing his chair from the table and gesturing for Sam to do the same. “In truth, while the thought was on my mind, I did not arrange this meeting just to speak to you of my troubles in a back room. We have other friends to join, and my spirits will certainly lighten more after a round of ale and some talk of goings-on in the Shire. After all, I have not yet had the chance to tease our young Pippin about his own engagement!”

Sam smiled. It was good to see Gimli acting more himself at the promise of spending the evening in good company. The hobbit was excited for the same -- even if his friends came to him bearing strange troubles, he had missed them dearly, and the rest of the night seemed poised to be exactly what he had looked forward to these past few weeks.

As he rose to walk towards the door, Gimli pulled him close one more time.

“And it goes without saying, I am sure, but you will say nothing of this to Legolas?” he said.

“Oh, on that you’ve got my word,” Sam said. “I’m not the one he ought to hear it from, anyways, else I’d not have advised you as I did!”

In the brief nod from Gimli, Sam got the distinct feeling that the dwarf was still mulling over his words. For a moment, he felt a brief pang, as if somehow he could have done more to help the situation. It was gone almost as soon as it came -- after all, his words had been true, and he was sure in thinking that this was something Gimli and Legolas would have to resolve for themselves. But as they stepped into the lively main room of the inn and the elf in question waved at him once more, he still couldn’t help but wonder if the matter being out of his hands was entirely a good thing.

He supposed only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! It's been a while, hasn't it? I've been working on this chapter for quite a while, but I was just never satisfied. I think the fact that it dealt with some more complicated material was a part of it. But after setting it down for a little, I came back to it this past week and was able to get the ball rolling again, and I feel pretty satisfied with the results. I hope you like them too. Hopefully the next delay won't be quite so long! Thanks for sticking with me in the meantime, though.
> 
> Also, HUGE shout out to scribefindegil, who has been my very patient beta the entire time and a huge reason I have been able to stick with this fic.


	3. A Failure of Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update within the month? It seems I have a bit more momentum for this story than around the time I published the first chapter, which I hope will continue. Scribefindegil, of course, continues to be the best beta
> 
> As a heads-up, this is sort of "the chapter where it all goes wrong," so while I don't know that I have any specific trigger warnings to issue, beware that there is some conflict. It feels prudent to at least mention that.
> 
> Oh, and this is more of a note for the fic in general, but for those who read the second chapter within the first day or so I made one small edit due to a timeline error on my part. It's nothing that affects the plot, I only mentioned Sam having Mayoral duties a few months before he was actually elected! My timeline should be all fixed now though -- not long after realizing the mistake, I sat down and plotted one out for the whole fic, taking into account all the relevant details from the Appendices and such. It was a bit of a research binge! But I have fun with that sort of thing.

_Rohan -- September, Year 5 of the Fourth Age (Halimath, 1426 S.R)_

Evening had finally crept upon the plains, bringing with it the tentative peace of cool air and fading light. The sun was nearly vanished from the horizon, and as he watched it, Gimli couldn’t help but feel there was a certain finality being imposed upon him by the night sky itself. As the last rays of sunlight bid the day farewell, he found himself thinking on his own position, and the pressures that time laid upon him, too.

The journey from Bree to the Glittering Caves was not one of the more difficult to tread in Middle Earth. It was true that the Greenway was old, and that even a few years prior, the ford at the ruins of Tharbad had been more treacherous, but in making their way home now, Gimli and Legolas had their friend the King to thank, as one of the plainest goals of Aragorn’s rule thus far had been restoring the road that once united Arnor and Gondor in years long past. Though the efforts since he had taken the throne could not yet undo the toll of countless years of disrepair, neither was the path between the united realms as wild as it once had been, and the pair’s crossing of the Greyflood was aided by some of the men and women who now worked to restore the ruined city’s former purpose. 

Nor was the way past the ford, following the Old South Road into Dunland and beyond, a particular strain for the two seasoned travelers. Arod was a steed of Rohan, and carried them across the empty lands swiftly, and though there were still many creatures of ill will lurking in the dark parts of the world, none of them saw fit to emerge and cause them trouble on this occasion. In truth, the only time they had drawn their weapons was to hunt for their dinner, and the easy days of late summer had provided them plenty of game.

Indeed, the elf and dwarf made time that many on harder journeys would envy -- but Gimli nonetheless found himself wishing some obstacle could have risen to bar their way.

He had thought on Sam’s words much after their evening in Bree. Now, some weeks later, he and Legolas were only a day out from Helm’s Deep, where they would be parting, and from there it would be some time again before they saw each other. Legolas had his settlement in Ithilien to attend to, after all, and having now arranged this most recent shipment of ores from the Blue Mountains, Gimli would be withdrawing not just to Rohan, but all the way to Erebor, where the other materials he had sourced for Minas Tirith’s new gates were being mined. He intended to winter there and spend time with his family, departing when the ice thawed and shipments down the Anduin could resume once more. If talking to Legolas was to be his course of action, it would be agony to wait out the months before they saw each other again. Which meant it could not be put off any longer.

“Look Gimli!” Legolas called suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts, “The stars themselves have come out to play!”

Turning his gaze from the horizon and back to their campsite, he saw that the elf held a firefly cupped in his hands. Several others floated lazily near him, and it was not long after his exclamation that one of the creatures landed upon his nose. Usually, Gimli would have laughed at the image of his friend scrunching his face in delight, his eyes crossing briefly as he tried to glimpse the speck of light now gracing his features. Tonight however, he found that even the elf’s joy weighed upon him. It served both as a reminder of the feelings that Legolas stirred within him and of that which he was so afraid to break -- his friend’s happiness.

Another firefly alighted on Legolas’ head, its light playing off his hair instead of simply scattering into the night, and then another -- and another -- on the shoulders of his tunic. It seemed that the elf’s affinity with nature’s denizens extended even to the smallest of them. True to his words, he looked for all the world like the night sky he loved so, dotted with his own pinpricks of light. But the grin he bore turned slowly to a quirk of confusion as Gimli faltered in his response.

“Does something trouble you?” he asked.

“I would have a word with you, if you are untroubled yourself,” Gimli replied.

“And I would comfort you!” Legolas said, his face earnest -- a rather silly thing when one had a firefly upon his nose, “What causes you grief?”

Gimli hesitated. He had said he wished to speak, but knew that if he were to recant his words now and say the topic pained him, Legolas would be willing enough to drop the issue. He never pressed him unduly to speak when he did not wish to -- only offered a listening ear when it was desired. But it was this thought of the elf’s respect for him, most of all, that ultimately bade him speak. More than anything Sam had pressed upon him, the notion he had dwelled on longest was that, should this risk becoming a rift between the two of them if Gimli held his peace, Legolas deserved to know the truth of the matter. He did not know how his friend would take his words -- but he did know that he had more than earned the right to his honesty.

“You are certain that tonight you are untroubled?” Gimli said. “My thoughts may be heavy for us both; I would not burden you with them if your own mind is already weighted.”

“There is nothing that has occupied my mind greatly, though your own worries are ones I take to heart,” Legolas said, “Alas that clouds seem to have drawn upon you tonight, but perhaps I can help to clear them.”

Legolas cocked his head to the side inquiringly. One of his ears twitched as he did so, prompting the firefly that had landed in his hair to clamber forward, now illuminating his brow with its light. Desiring to drag out the waiting no longer, Gimli breathed deeply, and began.

“I am lucky,” he said, “to have been rich in friendship my whole life, but especially so in these past years. You and the friends I know we both hold dear are of such great value to me, I cannot put it into words. Having stood beside you in both battle and peace, my immense fortune has been laid plain. This is relevant twofold: what weighs on me expands upon it, but more so, it is what I hope you will bear in mind -- your friendship is precious to me. I would also beg you know that no part of me desires for you to change yourself. This is a complicated matter, but that is not the solution. Do you understand?”

“Your words are strange to me Gimli, but if you ask that I know of your friendship then yes, that I have known for some time. But you know this well yourself, I think, and so I wonder what it is that burdens you.”

Legolas looked confused, and every confession Gimli had rehearsed in his mind seemed to disappear at the slight anxiety he now saw in the elf’s eyes. He had run through enough confessions to fill a lengthy tome, and yet something as simple as the specter of a worry in the eyes of his dearest friend seemed powerful enough to rob him of the silver tongue he was known for amongst his people. For though Legolas said nothing more, it was clear something about the question had unsettled him. But to leave him unsettled so with no elaboration would not fix it. He had to continue.

“I have followed many veins in the rock placed before me,” Gimli said. “Each leading me to further deposits that have offered me such a wealth in friends. My fortune is that there have been so many. But sometimes, a vein of one sort will lead to another -- a streak of iron ore that unexpectedly leads to one of copper, or of glittering quartz. And now, I find that one such vein of friendship, though no less valued for the offerings it has already given me, has yielded to something of a different nature for me. Something I know not what to do with.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand, Gimli -- what else would it become?”

His explanation did not seem to have changed much. Legolas looked well and baffled by his words, and Gimli sighed. He had hoped the realm of metaphor would allow him to break what he had to say more gently, but it seemed that for Legolas to grasp what he meant, he would have to lay it plain. 

“I have found my thoughts turning towards romance with the one I call my dearest friend,” Gimli said. “Though it is folly, for I know his heart, and I would not ask him to reciprocate.”

The pause after his words was long, longer than he felt he could bear. Legolas had turned his eyes towards the sky, seeming almost as distant as the stars he gazed upon. At the shifting movement, several of the fireflies that had landed on him earlier departed. He looked smaller, somehow, without their lights, curling inwards even as he looked up. After what felt like an Age, the elf returned Gimli’s gaze..

“You mean to say you wish I would court you?” Legolas asked.

At the question, Gimli started, worried that his own words had not been plain enough -- he had made an admission of love, yes, but it had been prefaced with the declaration that he would ask for no such thing!

“Nay, I do not wish that!” Gimli exclaimed. “I have told you the truth -- I do not ask you to change, for I know you do not desire such a thing for yourself.”

“But you wish it were different, that I were not so -- or at least your heart wishes it, even if your mind does not?”

Legolas’ voice quavered as he spoke, and Gimli found himself lost for words -- he did not know which ones would reassure the elf that, whatever his heart might have to say, it would never speak louder than his desire to see Legolas happy as well. It felt as though his voice was robbed from him, stolen by the fear that whatever he might say next would only worsen things. Perhaps his words escaped him too easily, but seeing the growing distress on his friend’s face, they escaped nonetheless.

“How long has it been so?” Legolas asked, after a significant pause. He still spoke softly, as if his own words might break with rough treatment.

“I assure you I would not have brought this to you if I had not thought on it well myself, but neither has it been too long, if you fear that--”

“--How long has it been so, Gimli?” Legolas repeated, sounding distraught. This time, there was not hesitation. Another of the fireflies, which had been resting on his tunic, fled at the exclamation.

“...It has been some two years, by my count.”

“Two years? Two years it has weighed upon you whenever you have been beside me? Two years you have been burdened such and I have not known?”

“Legolas!” Gimli said, finding his admonishment came perhaps louder than he had intended. He had only hoped to cease the elf’s guilt. “The journeys we take together -- and you -- are still dear to me. I have not only suffered by your side!”

“But you say you have!” Legolas said, arms curling around his legs. He sat crouched, and it seemed he aimed to make himself small, though his elvish height did not aid him in the endeavor.

“What have I done?” Gimli asked.

“Suffered! You have borne it with you wherever we have gone.”

“Legolas, you misunderstand me...”

But the elf did not seem to hear his words. Instead, he shook his head, bearing a mournful expression furthered by the glimpse of tears at the corners of his eyes. “I am sorry Gimli,” he said. “Were I more aware of myself, I should have realized the hurt I was causing you these past years we have travelled together. Instead I have harmed you, without even atonement until tonight.”

“Sorry? You need not be sorry! I am not asking you to feel guilt Legolas, I know you cannot change your--“

“--Stop!” Legolas said. There was a sharp tone to his voice now, not one of anger, but that sounded as though something that had splintered inside him. “I know myself I cannot change. You tell me I have caused you pain, and then you will not accept my apology? Ai, I am asking you for your forgiveness, not your pity! Would you deny me it?”

“Nay, not deny, but it is not forgiveness you must ask!” Gimli replied.

“Then what must I ask? What must I do? You say you understand I cannot change, and yet you admit it is something that has weighed upon you! What then, am I supposed to do?”

Legolas was shaking now, whether from the effort of restraining his emotions or because they had already overwhelmed him. If he knew his friend, it was likely to be the latter. The sight pained Gimli more than anything, and he cursed himself for pursuing this course of action at all -- or at least, for not knowing what to say ere it had gone so horribly wrong.

“I ask nothing of you but your understanding! I had thought my feelings were something you deserved to know, but there is no request folded into my admission. I am sorry to have told you, if it pains you so to hear.”

Gimli reached out a hand to rest upon Legolas’ knee, but the elf flinched at the touch -- a gesture that increased Gimli’s pain at that path of this conversation more than he had even thought possible. Whatever he had imagined, even in his anxiety, of the aftermath of his confession, it had not pierced his heart as deeply as this.

“So you will not take my apology,” Legolas said, “but you ask me to accept yours? You, who are the victim of my nature? This is a cruel joke, Gimli, and I ask you not to pursue it.”

“Legolas--”

“--I am glad you have told me, if what you fear is that your honesty is the problem. I would hear a hundred sorrows -- nay, a _thousand_ \-- if it kept me from hurting a friend in my ignorance. But if you expect yourself taking the blame to make anything better, I wonder if you understand at all why I feel so. You say you know my heart, Gimli. Well, that may be true in some matters! But in others, perhaps you do not know it quite so well as you think.”

At Legolas’ declaration, the last of the fireflies that had landed on him earlier took flight, seeing fit to join the specks of light in the sky once more. The elf was still quivering, his ears most of all, and though his tears had not entirely escaped, he still brought a tunic sleeve up to wipe his eyes. Gimli found that he was speechless. He wished he could find the words to comfort his friend, but as it seemed all he could do was make matters worse, he did not trust his tongue to make matters any better. Even apologies seemed to deepen the elf’s wounds. Perhaps the next time he tried, Legolas’ tears would run in full, and finding any sleep that night would be that much harder. Already, he felt that his heart was breaking. What would he do if he hurt Legolas more deeply?

The pair sat there in silence for a small eternity, the crackling of the fire the only sound other than Legolas’ attempts to pull himself together. The sound of him holding back his tears, Gimli thought, was perhaps the worst thing he had ever heard. It did not seem the elf had gathered himself much by the time he next spoke.

“I think I should like some time to rest. Good night, Gimli. I will see you in the morning.”

With those words, the elf rose and began to walk a little way off into the prairie grass behind him, a soft rustling accompanying him as he went. Gimli would have called after him, but found he had no voice -- only a deep, sick feeling in his stomach that seemed to be seeping into it from his heart. He stared at his friend’s vanishing silhouette, a dark spot against the stars that grew smaller as he walked away.

The night was quiet, which felt like a curse upon him. Besides distant crickets and the sound of the fire, it would have perfectly invited sleep. But sleep, though he would need it for the day of traveling ahead, was the last thing that Gimli had on his mind. Instead the silence meant he was only that much more alone with his thoughts, and with the creeping guilt that threatened to smother him if he let it.

Having spent long afraid of how this conversation might go, it was the source of the guilt that surprised him. Somehow, though they had weighed on him prior, it was not his own affections that ate at him. Nothing that Legolas had said made him feel as though that was the issue. Rather, it was his complete failure to reassure the elf that the value of his friendship was enough, and that he did not fault him for anything. He, who was supposed to be well-spoken! His mind turned to the compliments he had received years ago in Lórien -- he had long felt honored by the Lady Galadriel’s praise of his tongue, but what good was it if he could not use it to comfort a friend in pain! He would not scorn the Lady’s words, of course, but it felt a cruel twist that though he was so often held in high esteem as a speaker, his hold over words had failed him perhaps when he needed it most.

Knowing the night would be long, after contemplating his grief for some time Gimli nonetheless laid out his blankets and attempted to settle in to sleep. He predicted he would regret it if he did not at least try before the sun made its return. But Legolas did not come back to the camp before he had done so, and so Gimli lay in silence, no less consumed by his thoughts. Though they danced between alternate scenarios and wishes he had simply held his tongue, two questions more grounded in the future than the past or present were the ones that dominated his mind -- What was he supposed to do next? And how had things gone so horribly wrong?


	4. Troubles of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a content warning, please note that this chapter contains some fairly extreme examples of internalized arophobia. It should go without saying that the purpose is only to portray as significant some of the complicated parts of the aro experience and fears that aro people often hold, not the negative view of aromanticism it reflects, but nonetheless, I wanted people to be aware of the fact before reading.
> 
> Continued thanks to Scribefindegil for her help beta-ing!

_Ithilien -- September, Year 5 of the Fourth Age, (Halimath, 1426 S.R.)_

The halls of the Lord and Lady of Ithilien were not so imposing as those of much of the nobility of Gondor, particularly if one, as in Legolas’ case, had ever spent time under the soaring pillars and buttresses of Minas Tirith. In truth, they better reflected the tentative optimism -- and youth -- of the newly-thriving nation than the glory and heavy burden of history that walked hand in hand in its capitol. A half a day’s ride from battle-scarred Osgiliath, these buildings had seen no other Age, strategically constructed in a place where rebuilding efforts could be overseen without reminder of the evil the older city had seen hanging over those working to dwell in the brightness of the future, not the shadows of the past.

In truth, it was not a place Legolas’ had ever thought he would approach with trepidation. Here, along the young tree-lined paths, were saplings he had coaxed to grow himself, a gift to his friends who dwelled within. Here were the bushes of huckleberry and juniper he had sung to, and insisted their kitchens would thank him for, teasing he would teach them to eat like elves. Here was familiarity and welcome, which his own hands had played a part in. But in a cruel twist, he found it was exactly that he was unsure he could bear.

In the years since the War, he had grown close to Faramir and Éowyn. Necessity demanded they see much of each other, as they were all pouring themselves into repairing the same lands -- them and their people by brick and stone, and he and the elves of his own colony, only a few days from where the Lord and Lady resided, through tree and fern and leaf. But necessity only asked for cooperation. Instead, the three had quickly stepped beyond that, and found companionship in each other, and understanding. He was lucky, he supposed, that his closest political allies were also amongst the dearer of his friends -- for all his father had tried to mold him into a diplomat, falsely honeyed words and polite lies had never numbered amongst his strengths.

The trouble was that it now meant, as he returned home with a heavy heart, he faced friends who would inquire after him genuinely, not distant nobles who would idly wish him well before seeing him on his way. For two days after parting from Gimli, he had wondered if perhaps his current grief was not borne so plainly on his face, but all hope of hiding it had left him after a night spent in Edoras, to fulfill a promise to Éowyn that he would give her news of her brother on his return. Éomer, of course, had been a kind host -- and a friend who read his hurt plainly. But for Legolas, who wished to bury the reason for his sorrow and speak of it with no one, the young king’s repeated inquiries after his heart and health had only rubbed salt in recent wounds. He did not think he could hide his grief any better to still closer friends, even after a week and a half of travel. He had always been too open, too earnest. A small part of his consciousness -- one that often crept upon the elf in weaker moments, fed by the smothering trappings of legacy he had been born into -- wished that sometimes, perhaps, he could be more like his father.

But he had promised Faramir and Éowyn he would inform them of his safe return from this most recent journey, and spend a night in their own halls before he headed south to Ithilien’s elven settlement. Promises were something he took very seriously. Besides, there were the tidings from Edoras he had to share, even if he had been pained in receiving them. He only hoped -- even if he doubted -- that passing them on would garner him less grief.

“My lord Legolas!” a cheerful voice called out as he approached the doors. He recognized it as belonging Arahir, a young man in the Ithilien guard who often watched the entrance to the halls. “We were not expecting you for a few days hence! Shall I alert Lord Faramir you have arrived?”

Legolas winced slightly. The discrepancy in days was not merely due to swift travel -- his original itinerary had involved a longer stay in Rohan, but he had taken his leave early. Éomer’s well-meaning nagging aside, there had also been many questions about Gimli and the dwarves now making a home for themselves in Helm’s Deep -- questions, he knew, of a fair interest to the young king, but that Legolas currently found too difficult to bear.

“My lord?” Arahir repeated, a note of concern to his voice, and Legolas once again cursed the honesty of his face.

“Yes, tell him and the Lady Éowyn both, if they are not tasked otherwise at the moment. I will be glad to see them,” he said, hoping he could mask his hesitation with a grain of truth. For as much as it worried him at the moment, the pair were still his friends.

Arahir seemed more than content with the answer, a wide smile gracing his face. Any other time and Legolas would have found some amusement in just how eager some of the younger guards could be in speaking with him -- none of them had ever seen an elf before his colony in Ithilien had been established, and their awe at the Firstborn who had come to help reclaim their lands remained palpable.

“Of course,” Arahir said, “I’ll direct them to the Great Hall -- you’ll be in the Great Hall, won’t you? I imagine it’s the nicest place to wait. Er -- my lord.”

Legolas simply nodded, and the young man raced to the doors, now in search of his Lord and Lady. The elf followed him at a slower pace, pausing for a moment at the threshold to take a deep breath. He was not certain how long he would have to himself before speaking to his friends, but the time, at least, began now.

It proved, as it would happen, that he did not have long to wait at all. The approach of the couple could be heard only just after he settled into a seat by the large fire that roared in the hall, absently gazing at the tapestries on the wall that amounted for much of the decor in the young building, which was more wood and simple masonry than Gondor’s traditional elaborate stone. Not long after he recognized their voices, Éowyn and Faramir rounded the furthest hallway and came into view.

“Legolas!” Éowyn called to him. He rose to greet the pair. “You have come to us early.”

The woman moved swifter than her husband and reached him sooner, offering a restrained embrace in greeting. As she drew back, however, he noticed a shrewd look in her eye, seeming to assess him where he stood.

“Do you fare ill?” she asked. “You have a grim look about you, as of one under a dark spell.”

Faramir laughed at that for a moment. “He is only just returned, and you worry he is ensorcelled? Let him gather himself!” But soon, his own face lost some of its mirth as he drew closer, and Legolas could tell the man’s own questions would not be far behind. Éowyn, too, already had him caught in her newly-appraising eye, and as one who had been under her aggressive healer’s ministrations in the past, he knew he should say something placating.

“I have fared better,” he admitted stiffly, and the two exchanged concerned glances. A whole conversation seemed to occur unspoken, and with an odd pang his friends had not induced in him before, Legolas wondered if perhaps the ability stemmed from the depth of the couple’s bond.

“Legolas,” Faramir said gently. “Is it the Sea?”

And ai, what a question that was! In an instant he saw both his salvation from talk he wished not to delve into, and different admission of vulnerability. Though it was his conversation with Gimli that weighed on his mind most, he could not deny that the ache implanted in his heart pained him worse than it had in some time. 

It puzzled him. Drawing closer to the south, where the Anduin widened and the gulls came more often upriver, often had such an effect. But of course, he had been nearer still to the sea some weeks prior, as the Blue Mountains where he and Gimli had traveled together were a coastal range, and when they were not in them with the dwarves, they were on them, where the ocean called to him quite easily. Gimli had even suggested they take a longer route to reach their destination, one that would spend more time in the hills of Evendim than along the rivers that fed into the Gulf of Lune -- a memory that struck him much as a blow to the gut would in the recounting, now. He had not disclosed his Sea-longing to many, save certain close friends he felt deserved to know the reason for his occasional distance, and was often struck with amazement when they would do things simply for his accommodation. Gimli perhaps most of all, but… he wished not to think of Gimli.

“I hear it,” he murmured, unsure what else to say. “Louder.”

His admission garnered him looks of sympathy from the pair. He knew his ailment was strange to them, but neither were they strangers to difficult bouts of melancholy themselves. In some ways, despite their mortality, and perhaps more than anyone else he knew, the Lord and Lady of Ithilien understood.

“Is there aught we can do?” Faramir asked.

It was a question Legolas never knew how to answer. The newness of his Sea-longing competed with its intensity whenever he tried to understand it, and he was still learning how to keep it at bay -- when it was possible. In this case, however, any of his answers would be even hollower than the usual, seeing as it was not only the Sea that weighed upon him.

“It is the same as ever,” he lied. “I know no cure, but your company is no less appreciated.”

“And the same for yours,” Faramir said. “You have arrived near enough dinner, will you take your evening meal with us?”

“Yes, of course,” Legolas said, though he found he was answering more for the promise of companionship than the meal itself. He had little appetite as of late. “I have missed seeing you, and have tidings from Edoras and the Golden Hall to share besides.”

At the mention of her brother’s home, Éowyn’s eyes, which had not ceased their careful scrutiny of him, took on a brilliant glint. 

“Yes, tell me how Éomer-King fares!” she said, in a jesting tone, “Surely he is overcome with duty, and a stoic man these days.”

“He was certainly not silent!” Legolas replied, and Éowyn gave a small snort.

“And you must tell us of the halfings as well!” Faramir said, “I know it was your plan to see them, and I have heard no word of them for too long now.”

“They are much the same as ever, and yet the years you mention show,” Legolas said, “Sam’s children now number three, and young Pippin…” and here he stalled a moment, the words briefly hanging over him like a cloud he had not expected, “...young Pippin is likely to be married soon.”

“Pippin married!” Faramir exclaimed. “Imagine the partner he must have found! You must tell us more -- of brothers, and of halfling-tales, and of course, though we have seen more of him ourselves, of Gimli as well.”

If the thought of Pippin’s forthcoming wedding had been a cloud, the mention of Gimli was a thunderstorm, with winds that tossed him to and fro and lightning that struck his heart. He opened his mouth to speak, and offer a pained agreement he would share his news, but no words followed, leaving him only with the hurt in his soul and, strangely, the sound of the Sea in his ears. Instead of an answer, he was left with numbness.

“Legolas?” Éowyn said, though her voice felt oddly far away. He knew she had been appraising his person much of this time, but also imagined it did not take a careful eye to note his distress. “Feel you faint, or suffering some ill?”

It took him some time to gather himself and speak again. “I… I think I must have heard a gull,” he lied, the words weak on his lips. “From the river. Only that. I am sure it will pass soon.”

How he wished those words were true! He doubted he was at all convincing, but it felt the only thing he could say. His true hurts were too recent -- and too secret -- to share. 

Still feeling very distant, he was surprised when he felt a strong hand grip his arm and begin to guide him forwards. The certainty of it grounded him, and soon he realized that Éowyn was slowly leading him towards the center hallway.

“Come,” she said. “If you still wish to take a meal with us, which I advise after your long journey, we will sit in the hall until it is served.”

He nodded, letting the woman continue to guide him. Faramir began to follow behind, a look of soft concern on his face, but if he had questions of his own, he refrained from them.

Dinner was ultimately a quiet affair, a serving of roast duck he only poked at and several other dishes he did not touch. Only the fruit he was offered on the side felt all that palatable. Éowyn and Faramir were both palpably careful in their conversation, focusing their own talk on the affairs of Ithilien and a visit they had received from Aragorn and Arwen since Legolas had departed. He felt guilty he did not offer them as much of his own news, as he knew the pair wished to hear of their mutual friends, but when he tried to speak of certain matters, his tongue would simply halt, leaving him feeling worse than if he had remained silent. Telling Éowyn of her brother was not so hard, if he pushed aside his own embarrassment over the visit. Speaking of the hobbits was not much more difficult, so long as he kept himself to certain topics -- that they all seemed happy and hale, and the Shire fared well, and they asked him to pass on their greetings. He could even gladly recount a few things they had said to make him laugh. It was only when he strayed into speaking of Sam’s family or Pippin’s engagement that his words seemed to leave him.

And then of course, there was the matter of Gimli.

Legolas could tell that his reticence to speak much of the dwarf confused them, which he could understand -- after all, he had just spent weeks abroad in his company, and all knew the two of them to be close. But he had nothing he was willing to admit of his reluctance, and froze when he tried to say much else. He had at least assured them Gimli was not unwell, and they had -- quite intentionally, he knew -- begun then to tell him of the continued success a grove of trees he had tended to in the spring before departing.

It was only now, as he retired for the night, that he let himself think much on the matter at all. He had already dwelled on it long in his weeks of travel alone, of course -- after an awkward parting from his friend that had only left him feeling more gutted -- but it had felt so surreal, like some terrible nightmare, that he was still yet to properly order his feelings. Mostly, he had felt numb until now, as if perhaps he might wake and discover it all to be a lie. Even in Edoras, his parting with Gimli had been so recent that being asked about the dwarf had not made it feel so real. Here, though, it was beginning to all sink in. In conversation, it had been possible to push his feelings aside and let himself drift in his confusion and guilt. Laying in the bed of the chambers he usually stayed in when he was a guest here, however, it was not so easy to only be tugged along by the currents. Now, he felt as though he was drowning in them.

He was glad, of course, that Gimli had shared the truth with him. No lie had been spoken when he said he would rather know of his friend’s feelings than not. Nor did he think Gimli had been cruel in the admission, at least not in any way that was intentional. That he himself was fragile, at times, and liable to feel hurts deeply was not Gimli’s fault. In truth, none of this was, which was why he bore so much guilt that the dwarf also suffered for it. 

Legolas could not recall exactly when he realized his heart was not made quite right. The first clues had perhaps managed to come before the courtship-that-was-not with Arwen, as at that time he had already reached his second century, and was certainly no longer a child. But that whole affair was certainly the first to cause it to loom over him. He could still remember his shame at not understanding what everyone else had known, even if Elrond’s children had all had the advantage of being told it plainly, as well as his own father’s disappointment that Legolas had not only failed in what he had been tasked with, but done so rather embarrassingly. The twins’ and Arwen’s gentle teasing over the years had managed to soothe the hurt fairly well, as it was at least also the origin of their friendship, but occasionally, it still saw fit to rear up and taunt him of its own accord, ugly and writhing, like a dragon poised to strike.

After Arwen, it had been Coruon, a son of one of his father’s advisors that he had pushed Legolas towards far more firmly -- though the matter was no less disastrous for it. He had tried his best, of course, to approach their conversations as a courtship, but in the end, the other elf did not see his efforts as such and only felt hurt, accusing Legolas of being cold and pursuing him for politics alone, not any real care for him as a person. He had not known where he’d gone wrong, or how to tell Coruon the political motivations were not even his own. 

It was not as amicable a failure as Arwen had been.

Coruon had been followed by… Idhriel, he thought, although of her he was less certain. It was one of the elves he could not claim his father had anything to do with, that was all he knew, because it had forced him to recognize he was no better at matters of the heart when things rested entirely upon his own shoulders, and the only person he could blame for his repeated failures was himself. She had been one of the other members of a patrol he shared, and had thought him a flirt when he had only been entranced by her great skill with long knives. He had not understood her motives when she began showing off just to impress him -- or why she was then so hurt when he asked no one to dance with him at the Solstice that summer. The shame of his then-captain, Thalion, an elf he looked up to immensely, pulling him aside to ask him to stop toying with Idhriel’s feelings still made his face burn red if he lingered on it long.

He did not care to think of any other names. Legolas was very young for an elf, but that did not mean his five centuries were not long enough to be filled with other Coruons and Idhriels. Arwen, at least, remained a friend, but rarely did the others wish to still think of him as such when all was said and done. And now here was Gimli, who he held so very dear, balanced upon the precipice of becoming another person he had caused grievous insult. Perhaps, at his outburst when the dwarf had made the admission, he had already. It was more than he could bear to think about.

Legolas balled his fists and rubbed them at his eyes, which had begun to leak with tears. He did not understand what he had done to deserve such a thing -- to cause so much heartbreak for others and have his own heart, flawed as it was, broken each time in return. He knew he did not love the way that others did; that lesson had been pounded into him. And yet it still hurt him every time he hurt another. The admission of Gimli had stung extra, with his gentle assurances that he understood the elf could not change his nature, a fact Legolas knew better than anyone. He had given up on begging the Valar for such a thing long ago. 

Perhaps the cruelest thing, though, was that his friend had felt the need to hide his affections for so long. Gimli was the first person he had opened up to about the extent of his lack of desire; now having done so felt selfish beyond imagination. While he had enjoyed a few years of peace at the thought that his closest friend knew he harbored -- and yet did not reject him for -- such a shameful secret, Gimli had been the one to suffer for something so normal as desiring a relationship with someone he loved. 

Every night since their fateful conversation, Legolas had wondered if there were any better words he could have said. He was not eloquent like Gimli, but if there was anything that might have made course of the conversation run smoother, he wished he could have stumbled upon it. Not everyone he had failed in matters of the heart had grown to hate him -- Arwen and her brothers even seemed to have some inkling of his true nature, and yet she still saw him as a friend. But neither had Arwen held any real desire for him. With Gimli, it was not the same. And now, he was convinced, even if better words could have been said, he had ruined them by being so self-centered as to fall to pieces himself when he should have been constructing an apology the dwarf would actually accept. Certainly, it was too late for one now.

Legolas took the pillow from behind his head and pressed it to his face instead, muffling the sobs he accepted he could not hold in any longer. He did not wish for anyone else to hear, and be bothered with his troubles. Offering any explanation would only increase his shame, and there was little anyone could offer him in the way of help. After all, who had ever heard of a heart that pumped blood without issue, and yet managed to hold such a deep flaw? It defied his own understanding, too. Sometimes, in his darkest and most secret thoughts, he wondered if it could have something to do with being the only elf born in Mirkwood after the Watchful Peace ended and the Shadow fell over the forest. It did not seem likely -- he knew he bore no other signs of being warped by evil upon on his person -- but having never met another like him, the fear still lurked in the back of his mind, whispering that if such darkness could sicken the trees, perhaps it could sicken the heart of a Wood-elf, too. But even if it were true, the Shadow was gone now, and the wood was healing. He did not think the same would ever happen for his heart.

Eventually, even his tears ran out, and Legolas simply lay there, feeling limp. He had exhausted himself with the episode, and hoped that soon the paths of elven dreams would claim him. But as he waited, a rushing sound filled his ears that had little to do with the flush or embarrassment of weeping. Clear and ringing, it was the sound of waves up on the shore -- and for once, he welcomed the pangs of his Sea-longing like a friend, for at least it was a different ache than the one he felt would tear him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second set of notes on this chapter is a bit more academic of me, specifically dealing with the topic of Legolas' age. Unlike the rest of the Fellowship (aside from Gandalf) and many of his other characters, Tolkien never established when Legolas was born, meaning that, since the elves can live so long, his age is a bit of a mystery. People generally assign him a birthdate somewhere within the Third Age (making him somewhat contemporary with Elrond's children, all younger elves who were all born early in the same Age), but as that range is still a span of several thousand years, you still see quite a lot of variation in ages. One sourcebook for the movies put him at almost three thousand, but others have pointed out that he has an unusual youthfulness for an elf. I am in the latter camp, and think an age range of 500-700 [[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)] makes the most sense. Narrowing it down further, I felt that the lower end of the age range fit my interpretation of his character best -- emphasizing youthfulness as a component of his personality is decent logic in and of itself [[2](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)] \-- and ties in well with some of the themes of this story, specifically regarding his feeling somewhat out-of-place: incredibly young amongst his own people, and yet far older than any of his mortal friends.
> 
> To put a definitive age down, for those interested, my take suggests that Legolas was born in the year 2516 of the Third Age, putting him at only 502 (any probably quite proud of recently hitting his half-millennium) when he set off on the Quest with the Fellowship, and 510 when the events of this fic (minus the prologue) take place.
> 
> As a final note, I also wanted to elaborate on his own statement that he is _"the only elf born in Mirkwood since the Shadow fell over the forest"_. Obviously I have nothing specific to support this claim, beyond the idea that he is very young. That said, if Legolas was born in 2516 T.A., it was not long before, in 2460 T.A. that Sauron returned to Dol Guldur after the end of the Watchful Peace and the Greenwood began its "transformation" into Mirkwood. With the Third Age described by Tolkien as _"the fading years of the Eldar,"_ I imagine that by the time Legolas in particular was born, most elves had their eyes fixed on leaving Middle Earth, not on having children there. And in Mirkwood especially, while fewer of the Silvan elves faced the same Sea-longing, the danger of Sauron living on their doorstep and the darkening forest seems likely to have discouraged those of an already-fading people to bringing more young elves into a world that was already outgrowing them. I don't necessarily think he was the last elf to be born in Middle Earth, but I would venture to say that if others were born, it was more likely in peaceful Rivendell than dangerous and darkened Mirkwood.
> 
> All this to say: these are just the headcanons I'm using for this story! Legolas is a character we have little definitive information on, which means that to write a story that delves deeply into his character, any fan creator is going to need to do some invention. I have read and loved other stories that make different decisions about his background and family, but since this is what I have settled on for my own story, I wanted to be clear about my own thoughts -- and thought it very in the spirit of Tolkien to give you all an essay with footnotes, should you wish to read more on the topic.
> 
> 1 An age range that [this article](https://hobbylark.com/fandoms/legolas-mirkwood) by @Tinw gives some good logic for
> 
> 2 I love [this analysis](https://middle-earth.xenite.org/speaking-of-legolas/) of the idea of youth as a part of Legolas' character, written by Michael Martinez


	5. Push and Pull

_Ithilien -- November, Year 5 of the Fourth Age, (Blotmath, 1426 S.R.)_

If peace well-suited Mindon Miniual -- the name Faramir and Éowyn had given to the settlement where their own halls stood, and whose lands were flourishing without the threat of darkness upon its borders -- Faramir struggled to imagine what one would call the manner in which it graced Tinnu Elenath. The elves Legolas had brought with him from Eryn Lasgalen had worked miracles in their new corner of Gondor, coaxing birch and bear and bird alike back to lands they had fled so very long ago. Even the rocks and streams seemed happier for their influence. He was grateful beyond measure to have the help of such people to aid his own efforts to restore Ithilien to its former glory.

On most occasions, his visits to the idyllic elven settlement brought him a deep comfort -- even accompanied, as they were, by the feeling of being in a bit over his head when around its inhabitants. In truth, it was no novel sensation to him anymore, and yet still it felt to Faramir as if he would never adjust fully to the company of elves. At least he did not gawk so overtly now, as he was afraid he must have in his first encounters with the fair folk -- like a number in Gondor, the first of them he met had been Legolas, who was at the time paying a visit to Meriadoc in the Houses of Healing not long after the siege of Minas Tirith, and he remained grateful that his awkwardness upon their meeting seemed to have been either forgiven by the genial elf, or erroneously accounted to his own fragile state at the time, a misconception he felt no desire to correct. 

Still, he could not deny he had grown far more familiar with elves and their ways than his younger self would ever had thought possible. Sindarin, once a semi-foreign book-tongue whose pronunciation he was spared from wholly butchering by the past tutelage of Gandalf, now flowed fairly effortlessly off his tongue when called for. Aragorn and Arwen teased that he was developing an atrociously Silvan accent, thanks to keeping company with Legolas and his people. He had attended more than a few elvish holiday celebrations on diplomatic visits -- and gotten more than a little un-diplomatically drunk off of elvish wine in the process. He even counted several elves amongst his close friends.

At that thought, Faramir frowned. It was a matter tied to such a friendship that, on this particular visit, marred the peace of Tinnu Elenath for him and the awe he usually felt under its trees.

About a week prior, he and Éowyn had received a strange summons from the elves. Its peculiar nature was first marked by the fact that it bore the personal seal not of Legolas, who usually penned such correspondence himself, but of Merilin, an elf who served as the his _thontir,_ or pine-warden, a position Faramir understood to be something like a cross between an advisor and a captain of the guard. More unusual, however -- and troubling -- were its contents.

 _I write to you on a matter that I trust will be close to both your hearts,_ her letter had opened, after the appropriate pleasantries towards the couple. _Prince Legolas is not well. Here I must betray that I am writing this letter without his request or even his knowledge, but I worry for him, and I wish to call upon your aid if you can lend it._

Needless to say, the news had troubled him and Éowyn deeply. Merilin’s words did not grow more comforting over the course of the letter, and it sounded as though their friend was in a grave state indeed. Arrangements had been made almost immediately for Faramir to pay a visit to the elves, and within just a few days time, he had gathered a small retinue to travel with him to Tinnu Elenath, just two days south of his own halls. Faramir was grateful to have married such a woman that he held no doubts his wife could manage the affairs of Ithilien on her own until he returned.

It was for this reason, now that he was in the settlement itself, that Tinnu Elenath for once held little peace for him. He and his party had crossed the boundary of the elves’ lands not half an hour before, only to be quickly intercepted by Merilin herself, startling them all as she dropped from the trees in that startling manner so favored by the Wood-elves. The pine-warden had greeted them politely, but with an underlying urgency to her manner that betrayed she was not going to dwell long on pleasantries. Sure enough, after escorting the party only slightly further, she had asked Faramir if he would part with his people to speak with her in private before entering the settlement proper.

“I imagine it is for the same matter you summoned me here in the first place that you draw me away now?” he said as they stepped into the woods together.

“It would be no other,” she replied. “I do not generally take such initiative without the Prince’s knowledge.”

“This is still a matter you have not brought up with him, then?” Faramir asked.

“If you ask if I have discussed his ailment with him, then you are wrong -- I have brought up that he is unwell, and he has admitted as much openly, even asking me to carry out a few of his duties. But as for your visit, that is my scheme,” Merilin said. “As far as he is aware, you are here to discuss the orchard we promised your people aid with. Even as we speak, Ewenor is with him to assure his attention is currently on the relocation of some beavers from near our flets and not your arrival. I wanted the opportunity to speak plainly with you before you see him.”

“You run circles around your liege,” Faramir observed.

Merilin stopped, and looked at him coldly. It struck him as unusual immediately -- though he did not know the elven woman well, she was usually a cheerful sort, much closer in demeanor to her Prince than some of the graver elves he had met. Fickle as the fair folk could be, he imagined it was the weight of the current situation that was responsible for the change.

“I do what I must,” she said, “There are those who would see his current state as a sign of weakness, which is an embarrassment I wish to spare him. Do you question my judgement?”

Faramir held up his hands placatingly. “No,” he said, “rather I admire your competence. It must be wearying to carry on this way, and I am glad you persist nonetheless. It is good he has others that care for him.”

Nodding at this, Merilin resumed walking, though as she did, she ran fingers through her dark hair, kept unusually short for an elf’s, in a manner that looked to be a sign of nerves.

“‘Wearying’ is the proper term,” she said, “Though I fear none of us are more weary than Prince Legolas himself. I have never seen the like of it -- the Sea-longing is not so common amongst us Silvan folk, but even if it were, I imagine I would be at a loss as to how to help him beyond encouraging him to sail. And that is something I know he does not want.”

“It is the Sea-longing, then?” Faramir asked. “I had assumed as much, but was not certain. I did not realize it could grow so intense.”

In truth, Faramir felt he he poorly understood the affliction the elves called Sea-longing, even with a friend who suffered from it. He was sure that even if one of them were to explain it to him in full, there were still pieces of it only an elf could ever grasp. It was clear enough that it shared certain elements with some of his own struggles -- the listlessness, the melancholy, and the weary languor of the mind all were familiar to him, courtesy of the darkness that preyed upon his own from time to time. Thus, when Legolas slipped into such a state, Faramir knew the general type of care to offer him. But he also knew there were many things about the ailment that escaped him. Most pressingly, he had little idea what it looked like in an advanced state.

“I am certain it is,” Merilin said, “But I have no inkling why it has grown worse. As far as I know, nothing has occurred that would trigger it so, and even the wind blows away from the sea this time of year. Whatever has changed, it remains hidden to me.”

“What is his condition?” Faramir inquired, though he almost wished not to ask the question. Important as it was to know, he felt ill at ease over his friend being in such pain.

“Not yet so grave as to cause panic, but it grows the graver. The Prince is distant often, and takes longer and longer to draw back to himself when he falls into such a state. He eats little and, if his tiredness is anything to go by, rests poorly, and he has admitted to me there is now a physical pain that accompanies the ache of his heart. I… I fear for him.”

Merilin turned to look at Faramir once more, this time her expression entreating. No plea was spoken, but it hung in the air as plainly as if she had asked him aloud.

“Prince Legolas will not sail to Valinor, I think,” she continued. “It would be one cure for his ailment, but he has been quite open with his desire not to leave Middle Earth. Usually, I am glad of it -- selfishly, perhaps, as I enjoy his company and leadership, and wish to see his project here thrive. But if his affliction progresses, his stubbornness to stay will be the death of him, and that I cannot bear to watch.”

Faramir blanched. “His death? Surely… Is the Sea-longing truly so serious an illness as that?”

The sound of crunching leaves had accompanied his footfalls -- though not Merilin’s, thanks to the unusual lightness of foot of the elves. Abruptly though, the noise stopped, as Faramir found himself frozen in his tracks. Merilin stopped with him. Tilting her head in that curious manner elves so often did, ears twitching slightly, her expression shifted from sadness of her own to an almost placating look.

“It is not usual,” she said softly. “But it is a danger. Do you Men not know of fading? I had thought it might appear in your stories of elves, if nothing else.”

“I had thought it a poetic term!” Faramir exclaimed, a sudden dread clawing at his stomach. “Can an elf truly just… fade away, from grief or other hurt?”

There was not an immediate reply, aside from the further rustling of leaves in the wind. Merilin gazed into the distance, seeming to think over her next words.

“Our souls are more fragile than those of Men,” she said, eventually, “In the same way a blade can tear the flesh, a great trauma can injure the spirit of an elf. Such hurts must be quite severe to do such damage, but the call to Valinor is strong, and resisting it has risks. If it tears at his spirit too deeply...”

As Merilin trailed off, Faramir found he felt a bit dizzy. He was unsure how to receive such news and not fall prey to his own, albeit less life-threatening, grief. To learn a friend’s private battle threatened him so greatly was ill news to bear -- particularly when one understood the battle so poorly in the first place.

“Do you feel such a call?” he asked, eventually, “What is it like?”

Merilin shook her head. “As I said, it is a less common affliction amongst the Silvan folk. I imagine it is one reason it weighs on Prince Legolas so -- unlike most of us, through his parentage he is Silvan and Sindar both, but neither bloodline is very familiar with the call of the Sea. I do not know what he feels, only that it is a great hurt, growing greater, and that my own pain is in the watching of it.”

Both man and elf walked in silence after that, for distance enough that before he next spoke, Faramir could finally glimpse in the trees the first of the largest flets at the settlement’s center. They were drawing close to the end of their walk -- and he imagined, their conversation, which left him grasping at what questions would be best to ask.

“Tell me,” Faramir finally said, hoping perspective would aid him, “I do not doubt your judgement, necessarily, but if this is so dangerous an affliction, what has been your motivation in keeping it secret?”

“The Prince’s privacy for one,” she said, “He is a quiet sort, after all, and is private with personal matters. But there is another reason. Prince Legolas is young -- incredibly young, for our people -- and though I think he has done well here in his efforts with Tinnu Elenath, there are those back in Eryn Lasgalen who think of him as too inexperienced to lead, and who have said it is foolish to let one so few in years establish such a project. I fear if word gets back to them, it will only add to his suffering, should critique of his youth be added to his woes.”

“Is his father’s opinion one you worry about?”

Merilin had been walking slightly ahead of Faramir, but whirled around to face him.

“That King Thranduil would say such things of his son? You reveal you have spent little time around him, my lord! Nay, I fear his reaction for other reasons. Heartbreak, namely -- I cannot imagine the toll it would take on the King to lose the last of his family. I would suggest you hold your tongue if you imagine he would be anything but distraught.”

Her tone was sharp, and Faramir was taken aback for a moment. A few emotions warred in him at once -- shame among them. Soon, though, he gathered himself.

“Forgive me,” he said, with a slight bow of his head. “I have known other lords who would hold such struggles far more harshly against their sons. It is true I have only briefly met your King. I am glad to hear he cares for Legolas so.”

“I have seen him in a panic after the Prince was bitten by a giant spider while on patrol. I can assure you that he cares quite desperately -- as can the healers,” Merilin said.

At this point, the pair had reached the base of one of the great tree-houses -- the flet Faramir had glimpsed from afar. Other elves could be seen going about their business, though it did not seem he and Merilin had drawn much attention with their own conversation -- a fact he was glad of, not only because of the privacy of the matter, but because he feared in his recent comments he might have committed an accidental diplomatic slight.

“Merilin,” he said, at this point feeling desperate from the dire news that had been paired with sparse advice for action, “I am glad you have called me here, and for all you have shared, even if only to know the seriousness of the situation. But one thing presses upon me -- you wrote me for help, but I must admit, I am at a loss with this. What is it you hoped I could offer him?”

Merilin sighed and gazed upwards, looking at the last of the leaves on one of the great oaks above them. Most had fallen by now, but a few straggled, reluctant to let go of their branches even this late in the season.

“Something has changed for him,” she said slowly. “It has been years since the War of the Ring, from which he returned to us having heard the call of the Sea. But not until now has it overwhelmed him thus. For a time, it seemed his ties to Middle Earth brought him enough joy that he was not torn so. I worry there is something that has shaken his belief or ability to find comfort in those ties, and I wish to discern what it is. But intuiting such things is not where my skills lie. Perhaps you can succeed where I have not.”

 _Such logic is sound enough_ , Faramir thought, and was about to ask a further question after Legolas’ well-being when a call rang out through the autumn air.

“Faramir!”

At the sound of his name, he turned, only to see the personage of his and Merilin’s discussion dashing through the leaves underfoot towards them, trailed not far behind by another elf he knew to be Ewenor from his previous visits. Recalling what Merilin had said earlier, it seemed the aids’ distraction had come to its end.

“You must accept my deepest apologies, my friend,” Legolas said as he reached them, brushing a loose hair from his face that seemed to have escaped from his braid during his run. “I was attending to another matter and missed your arrival. It seems… it seems my mind is not entirely itself these days.”

Ample warning had been given, and then some, but Legolas’ visage gave Faramir something of a shock. Having spent the first few decades of his life acquainted with the elves only through books and scrolls, the vitality of their presence was something Faramir could never have prepared himself for. Sometimes it seemed to him that, even for a fading people, they still managed to possess a tirelessness that would never run out. But seeing Legolas now, he was suddenly struck with the realization it was something he had begun to take for granted -- not in the sense that it had ceased to awe him, but rather, that he thought it so core to the elves it struck him as incredibly disquieting to see one so sapped of it.

Legolas looked tired. If he had been a Man, Faramir would have read him as lacking several nights’ sleep -- but knowing of the resistance of elves to exhaustion, it had to be many nights more. He had never before seen an elf with dark circles under their eyes, but his friend bore a deep pair of them, dug into his unnaturally hollow face like fox-holes. All about him was a painful hollowness, really, the more pronounced for the fact that Legolas’ frame was already quite wiry for a warrior’s, even when he was well. There was a far more unnatural leanness to him now, with the severity of bone showing prominently on his face and hands. And even as he had run towards them, there had been something of his usual effortless grace lacking -- a stiffness of the limbs, perhaps, that spoke volumes more than Faramir wanted to hear.

Though he wanted to reassure his friend the delay was fine, the words caught in his throat first -- a combination of the shock at the ailing state of a friend he had seen look far healthier not two months before, and the new concerns dredged up in his conversation with Merilin. But eventually, his tongue conceded to work again, and he spoke.

“It is no trouble at all,” he assured. “I understand you have other affairs. Beavers, I was told? I cannot say they are a trouble I am familiar with.”

“Ah,” Legolas said, with a spark in his tired eyes that looked more like his usual self. “But you do not live in trees, my friend. We have coaxed them to settle a bit further from the flets and all should be well.”

There was a glance exchanged between Merilin and Ewenor next to them, and the pine-warden was the one to speak next.

“I imagine you both have catching up you wish to do,” she said. “We shall leave you to it.”

As she stepped away, Merilin sent one last glance in Faramir’s direction, a subtle nod the only sign of what he knew to be her true intentions. He offered her the same in turn.

“Come,” Legolas said as the others parted from them, “It has been a long day, and I think I should like to sit a moment. Will you accompany me to my flet? I wish to make up for missing your arrival.”

“Of course, my friend,” Faramir replied. “Though again, you must not feel you have to make up for anything. It will simply be nice to talk.”

He did not comment on Legolas’ somewhat out-of-character admission of weariness.

Still, he admitted to himself after making the climb to the small tree-house, though the elf clearly ailed, it was with far more grace than most could muster under similar circumstances. Legolas had climbed the ladder almost as nimbly as ever, the stiffness to his movement an inconsistent hindrance. For a moment, it was almost as if nothing was different. Only after they both were seated on cushions, cups of tea the elf had offered in hand, did he see the weariness -- more even than had been evident when Legolas had first greeted him -- once again settle fully upon his friend.

“Tell me, is Éowyn well?” the elf asked. 

“Certainly,” Faramir said, “She has acquired a new project horse from the stables, and I think has been quite pleased with her progress. You know how she likes to have something to work on.” He paused, turning his eyes towards his cup, then back at the elf. “But tell me -- are you?”

“Am I…?”

“Well, Legolas. Are you well? You do not look it, and that is strange to me.”

A flicker of what seemed almost to be insult crossed Legolas’ face, mingled with another emotion that was harder to place, before he lowered his eyes and instead gazed into his tea. He did not speak for a length of time.

“I have fared better,” the elf eventually replied.

“You have also revealed more!” Faramir exclaimed. “Is there a reason for your reticence? You cannot tell me nothing is wrong.”

“Can I not?” Legolas said.

“It would be a lie, that much I can see,” Faramir said.

Legolas narrowed his brows, though with the weariness to his gaze he looked more tired than anything, the familiar green-grey tone of his eyes for once reminding Faramir more of an overcast sky than the forests Legolas loved so dearly.

“Can I not,” Legolas repeated, far quieter, “if what I wish for is to not discuss the matter?”

“Can I not inquire after the health of an ailing friend?” Faramir replied.

There was a silence, punctuated only by the tapping of Legolas’ fingers in what seemed to be a nervous tic on the side of his cup of tea. Faramir felt almost inclined to join him in it -- though he wished not to lay the blame upon his friend, who was clearly ill, this day was wearing him thin with worry.

“You are right that I am unwell,” Legolas said. His fingers did not stop their tapping. “Do not take me as… as trying to hide it. But I would rather dwell on other topics, if it is well with you.”

“And what if it is not? Legolas, the Sea-longing does not usually lay like this upon you! I wish to help if I can, but I fear I do not know--”

“--you cannot help,” Legolas murmured. 

“Say not such a thing! Surely you are not beyond--”

“You cannot help!” he said, louder, though it still was not a full shout. The effort seemed to drain him and he hunched his shoulders in.

“Not even--”

“Faramir, please!” Legolas said, and the pleading note to his voice stopped the young man in his tracks a moment. “Speak to me of other things, I beg you.”

It was an earnest request, and on most occasions Faramir would have listened without question. As it stood, the decision to push the issue or leave it warred within him. His visit was not over, he could certainly ask his questions another time. Not to mention, seeing Legolas, hollow-looking as he was, glance at him so entreatingly was like a dagger to his heart. Compassion would usually have ruled it. But his conversation with Merilin hung in his mind, too, and the direness of the stakes she had implied mingled with his kinder impulses. If it was only the right words he lacked…

“I do not want you to think you are beyond help,” Faramir said, soothingly. “There are many of us who care about -- nay, _love_ you -- and who--”

“--Ai, speak not of others' love for me!” Legolas said with a wail. In a moment, he was on his feet, his tea sitting abandoned on the ground.

“Legolas--”

“Nay, do not scold me!” the elf said, his voice rising. “Or perhaps I shall scold you in return! I see your purpose in being here now -- you are come to see if I am still sound of mind enough to be your ally, are you not? Shall you become my minder instead? Are all to treat me with pity, now, and must one failing compound into a pile of others? I am tired, but I am myself still. I will weather no more questions!”

It had been several years ago that Faramir had his first -- and thus far only -- audience with King Thranduil, when the Elvenking had made an unspeakably rare journey from his own forest in order to pay a visit to his son’s new lands. Much as he had feared it -- What did one even deign to say to the last elven monarch East of the sea, particularly one known to hold more steel in his veins than blood? -- the diplomatic obligation of Faramir’s own presence had been clear enough. The brief talk with Legolas’ infamous father -- though he would use no such language in front of his friend, and after his chastisement by Merilin earlier, even wondered himself if it was uncharitable -- was not one he would soon forget, nor would the penetrating gaze of King Thranduil be one that left his mind easily. Sometimes, he found it hard to imagine the elf he had come to know as a friend sprung forth from such formidable stock, even with his own intimate knowledge of how unalike sons and fathers could be. True, there was a great resemblance between Legolas and Thranduil, but it was akin to glimpsing a rushing river one was used to seeing in the spring months -- overflowing, and alive with snowmelt off the mountains -- still and frozen over in the winter instead. 

For a brief moment, however, he could have sworn that in place of familiar grey-green eyes, he had caught a flash of icy blue. The picture of cool, implacable anger on Legolas’ face held just long enough for Faramir to shiver under it, possessed with the fear he had made a horrible misstep in his possible under-assessment of elven pride -- when suddenly, the illusion broke. Though for a moment Legolas’ gaze had been like daggers, the blades now revealed themselves to be but shards of glass, sharp only because moments earlier, they had shattered. A choked sob wrenched itself from his throat, and the young elf, in a display now most unlike his father, seemed to go weak in the knees, falling forward as if he could no longer bear to stand. Faramir leapt to his own feet, catching him in his arms. Slowly, as if bearing a precious cargo, he lowered the now-limp Legolas to a sitting position. The elf did not object -- only continued to cry. Faramir did not relinquish his hold.

“I came here not as your ally, but as your friend,” he said, at a moment where Legolas’ tears seemed lighter. He felt unspeakably guilty for his own role in his friends’ hurt, even if he knew it ran far deeper than the words they had just exchanged, “And I ask your forgiveness for my prying. I do not need to know your every weakness intimately. But should you allow it, I will support you through them all the same.”

The elf’s reply came first not as words, but as a touch. Faramir held him still, and as he moved to pull away, found Legolas hand upon his arm, tugging him back. It was gesture enough.

“I am so tired,” Legolas said eventually. He sounded it more even than before, and Faramir found he almost could not bear it.

“I am sorry to have contributed to your woes,” Faramir said, “If it is amenable to you, however I will extend an invitation,” He loosely shifted his embrace to free an arm and push back the same lock of hair from the elf’s face that had broken free earlier. “Come and stay with Éowyn and I, for however long you wish. We will gladly spend what time we can with you, and perhaps it will be a help to whatever ails your heart.”

His words garnered him a long, sad look from Legolas. At once he could gather it held hidden meaning, but even he, perceptive amongst Men, could not pretend to divine what. Still, he gave the elf his own time to speak -- he would not make the same mistake again today, and instead hoped his friend would choose to say what felt comfortable to him in time.

“Only if it is no burden to you,” Legolas murmured.

“Let us not speak of burdens,” Faramir said, “Which you are not alone in bearing. Instead, let us speak of aid. I am willing to offer it. Will you accept?”

That the response was slow in coming did not surprise him, though he took it as a good sign that Legolas was slowly tracing one of the embroidered patterns on Faramir’s sleeve in great concentration, at least considering the matter.

“I will come,” he said. “I do not know that it will do any good, but I think it will be pleasant not to have so much responsibility as I do here. To rest.”

“I hope dearly you can get some, my friend,” Faramir said.

With a wandering gaze, Legolas turned his eyes away from Faramir towards the trees, visible from inside the flet through a large open window, their bare branches outlined against the grey sky.

“You missed the height of autumn,” he said, wistfully. “Things were so lovely before the leaves fell. Red and gold and brilliant orange. Now… now they are gone. I suppose it is in their name, for leaves to leave. But I miss them so already.”

It was only because he still held him that Faramir felt Legolas shake as he spoke, some imperceptible emotion running through him for a moment. When the elf turned to face him again, it was gone.

“Rest would be nice,” Legolas murmured, the weakness of his voice belying the understatement, “I hope I get some too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This is another one of those chapters I had to put down and pick up again to get right, but fortunately it sorted itself out a bit faster this time. Scribefindegil continues to be the most wonderful and patient beta, who bribes me with the offer of homemade toffee, and if you're enjoying this story you should shower her with thanks, too.
> 
> Not going with full footnotes this time but I do have one other moment of "making things up about Legolas because Tolkien didn't give us much" that I'll own up to -- the comment about him being both Silvan and Sindar is only half attested, since we know nothing at all about his maternal parentage (Thranduil, of course, is as Sindar as they come, having grown up in Doriath). I'm personally assuming she was a Wood-elf. Either way, it's the Noldor elves who are more acquainted with the Sea-longing, so even with that mixed heritage it would have been foreign to him prior to hearing the cry of the gull in RotK -- which means Galadriel trying to warn him about it makes a lot of sense!


	6. Choices

_Ithilien -- December, Year 5 of the Fourth Age (Foreyule, 1426 S.R.)_

A rushing, echoing wave, followed by a crash as it broke against something in his mind -- and then it was gone, its successor just far enough away that Legolas could grip the blanket he lay on, hoping, as he had each time this last hour without success, that it would ground him better than it had before. He gave a soft whimper, shaking at the dull ache in his limbs that made his fingers feel numb as he fumbled with the wool that slipped between them.

He was not sure how long he had lay there. Too long, that was certain. The small window above him had grown dark, and though it was the time of year the sun retreated early from the sky, it had also been barely afternoon when he excused himself to his guest room, his mind too far adrift for the conversation at hand and his heart sore at that truth. 

The crash of a wave filled his consciousness again and Legolas restrained another cry. He hated that the sound of the Sea was so strong in his head -- a beckoning, entreating pull that nonetheless came more as a taunt than an invitation. This current spell was perhaps one of its worst; like the ebb of the tides themselves, the roar in his head had both highs and lows. But even if he had not been able to recognize it himself -- if he were ever to find himself lost more in the fog than the foam, perhaps -- it was reflected on the faces of his friends quite plainly that these days, the balance turned ever towards the harsher. 

Legolas had dwelled at Faramir and Éowyn’s halls in Mindon Minuial for only a week when the couple had asked him if he wished for them to send word to Aragorn of his ailment as well. At first he was only glad they did not also ask of Gimli -- who Legolas knew to be quite far away in Erebor by now, having been aware of the dwarf’s plans for the rest of the year. Minas Tirith, however, was close, and that temptation far greater. Shame had grown in him when Legolas realized how dearly he would like to see the man, even if it meant pulling him away from his duties as King to dwell instead upon the elf’s diminished state. He had told them no.

A week later, he had told them yes.

The King, of course, was forced to put certain affairs in order before he could make a trip to see an ailing friend, but even so, Aragorn had moved quite quickly on receiving the summons. He and Arwen had arrived two days prior, and, though they could not make their visit long, had spent much of their time with him already -- and the rest in hushed conversation with Éowyn and Faramir, that Legolas knew he was the topic of.

It was a cruel joke. On the one hand, Legolas knew that his now-losing battle with the Sea-longing had been brought on by his conversation with Gimli, the dwarf’s admission stirring up fears that all he held dear would either ask of him what he could not give, or see him for what he was -- a hanger-on, a piece that did not fit with all the others -- and leave him behind for their spouses, their families, their closer ties, relegating him only to the distant corner of remembered adventures and occasional pleasant visits. He had no such ties -- only his father, and even then, Thranduil’s was a deep but tumultuous affection, and Legolas found his own sense of duty pulled him more towards Ithilien than Eryn Lasgalen. On the other hand, however, his friends all afforded extensive attention to him now -- but only because he suffered. He knew it was a drain upon them, faces drawn tight at his condition and words towards him too soft, as if all around him were afraid he might shatter. He supposed it was fair. He felt as though he would, knowing himself to be doomed either to be only a small part of his friends lives, or a painful one. Perhaps he would even, in the case of one such as Gimli, become both.

The next wave in his mind was softer, buffeting his thoughts less than the previous ones had, and instead of clutching the blanket beneath him he traced it softly, murmuring, in a quiet, atonal voice so unlike his usual tenor.

 _To the Sea, to the Sea! The cry, never ceasing,  
_ _Never still, never quiet, and never releasing.  
_ _I can hear it, I hear both the rage and the roar  
_ _Of the Sea as it crests on the rocks on the shore.  
_ _In my heart is a longing, a mourning, an aching,  
_ _The waves not alone in the act of their breaking.  
_ _West are my people, yet people are here  
_ _Who I also call mine, and cherished, and dear.  
_ _Hurt I have caused them, and felt in my failure.  
_ _Will hurts disappear on the path of the sailor?_  
 _The cry of the gull ‘tis a pull will not leave me_  
 _If I leave, I wonder, how many will grieve me?”_  
  


Legolas trailed off with another whimper, tightly curling his fingers into his bedding once more as he was wracked with a series of shivers, a particularly violent mental breaker tearing through his resolve as if it were paper. The worst of them hurt almost physically, the ache in his soul making itself known throughout the rest of his body, every inch of him overcome with the call of the Sea. It was one of many reasons he got little rest these days. 

So consumed was he in the throes of his Sea-longing, Legolas almost failed to hear the door to his room open -- a fact that itself spoke volumes for one once so keen of hearing. Even detecting the sound, he only barely raised his head, too spent to offer a proper greeting.

“Here you are,” came a soft voice he knew to be Arwen’s as she stepped into the room. “We were unsure if you had wandered out on the terrace again or retreated here to rest.”

Soon enough, the deep purple of her dress came into view even from where he lay on the bed and there was a gentle touch upon his face, first brushing his hair -- which he these days worse lose -- from his eyes and then guiding him to look up at her with a hand upon his chin. The soft expression she bore did not bely the worry he was certain lurked below it.

“It is cold on the terrace,” he said. His voice quavered as he spoke. It was true though -- Ithilien’s winters were not so harsh as the ones he had grown up with, but the last time he had ventured out in an attempt to glimpse the sky, ill at ease as he always was when confined too long indoors, he had found the weather discouraging.

Arwen knitted her brows together, now admitting to her concern. “You feel the cold?” she asked.

“Something like it,” he said. Slowly, tried to come back to himself to offer her a proper reply -- words were difficult to come by in his current state. So scattered were his thoughts it took some time, but Arwen seemed patient to wait. 

“Not… not as mortals do, I imagine,” he continued eventually, “But I have felt its bite before, when forced into circumstances even elves struggle to endure. It is like that now, but paler, preying upon the tips of my fingers and senses like a creature who has claimed new territory. I do not much like it. It is very strange.”

It was true. Legolas had only ever felt the cold when his body had been tested to its absolute limits by injury first. Even on Caradhras, when the rest of the Fellowship had been struggling in the snow, the storm around them had barely nipped the tips of his ears. He could not imagine Gandalf quipping at him to fetch the Sun now -- though Gandalf, he was reminded with a pang, now dwelt exactly where Legolas did not want to go.

“Very strange indeed,” Arwen murmured, sounding distant herself for a moment. “And stranger still that you and I should come to know it in such diverging ways.”

Confused, though perhaps it was the Sea muddling his thoughts -- he understood far less than he ought to these days -- Legolas furrowed his own brow. He shifted slightly where he lay, so as to better look up at her.

“What mean you?” he asked.

Arwen’s fingers had continued to gently tease his hair, running through it in gestures of comfort as they spoke. Now though, she stopped.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to bring myself into the battle you fight. It is only… I find it curious, and perhaps a bit unfair, that you should become acquainted with the cold because the pull of the Sea has grown so strong for you, where I have felt the chill these last few years because I no longer hear it.” 

At these words, Arwen’s lips curled into a wry smile. “You and I cannot win, it seems,” she added.

A feeling of guilt pressing on him, Legolas finally made a motion to sit. It took far more effort to pull himself from the bed than it should have; his arms shook at the effort, and the haze in his mind seemed to sing to him it was better to stay lying down. Seeing his struggle to rise, Arwen steadied him.

“Do not apologize,” he urged her once he was upright. “I feel enough of a burden already.”

“You are no burden,” Arwen said, her voice soft. “You bear a heavy load yourself, though. I know the Sea is not quiet. I am sorry it has grown so loud.”

The two elves sat in silence, seemingly both unsure what else could be said. The quiet, however, was not oppressive. Though conversation had, as of late, come to pain him at times and the presence of those who cared about him risked stirring guilt, the company of others was often still soothing to the call that wracked his soul.

“Here,” Arwen said after a time, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning him gently to face away from her. “Let me do your braids. I know you prefer to wear at least a few.”

As she began to work, Legolas felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, the feeling of her careful fingers twisting in his hair stirring emotions he had not realized he was carrying. He had been too tired to do any proper braids for some time now, his fingers often fumbling on the occasions he tried. It was a small thing, more a symptom of his ailment than a serious loss, but Arwen’s offer to repair one such thing that had wandered out of his control -- and her deft display of her knowledge of him with it -- moved him deeply.

“I am afraid I do not know any Silvan styles,” she admitted. “So I am sorry to say you will look quite Noldorin when I am done.”

“Nay,” he said, slowly. “I resemble my father too much for that.”

“Ah, that is true,” Arwen said. “You are quite his image. I know my grandmother found it quite amusing, given how unalike you are in temperament.” 

Neither of them spoke for several minutes after that, Arwen quietly twisting strands of hair into what seemed to be fairly intricate designs while Legolas focused on the grounding sensation. The Sea was still loud in his head, but the gentle tug on his scalp each time Arwen tightened a braid was a welcome distraction from it. 

“Do you think you will go?”

Legolas had let his eyes close as Arwen worked, but after her question they flew open, the rushing of the waves suddenly crashing down on him again. He must have flinched, for Arwen stopped her braiding.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” she said. “I did not--”

“--No,” he said. “It is a fair question. I… I do not wish to. Not yet. There are many I would miss here and further, few I would know once I was there. None even amongst my family. My father is here still, after all. And my grandparents died long ere I was born, and my mother not long after. I am not sure I would even know her face.”

Tears pricked at Legolas’ eyes once again, this time bitterly. Long had he dwelled on this fact, and the on the deep unfairness that his head and heart and very being now all longed to go to a place he had never been, to be spend his days amongst people he didn’t know. It was an uncharitable description of Valinor, he supposed, but he was not feeling particularly charitable towards the the things his heart did or did not want these days, since it seemed to have gotten them all irrevocably mixed up. Why could it not want one such as Gimli the way it wanted the West?

“Forgive me,” Arwen said, starting another braid, and Legolas found that he thought her speech was littered with a few too many apologies for one who claimed he was not causing her grief, “I think I have let the vestiges of jealousy within me cloud my understanding of how difficult your own position is. It is very different from my own. To me, Valinor is a broken promise. To you, it is perhaps more an unwanted obligation.”

“You have still not been unkind, “ Legolas said, “And I am jealous myself that you have one such as Aragorn to anchor you here, so perhaps we are even.”

“You have many of us who will do what we can, until you decide it is your time to leave.”

“Not as with you and Aragorn.”

Behind him, Legolas could feel Arwen shifting the hair she worked with to one hand. In a moment, she laid her free hand upon his face, guiding him to look at her. There was a piercing look upon her face, so very like those her own father would give when analyzing one before him.

“Legolas,” she said, “Would you even want such a thing? In all the years I have known you, you have never--”

“--what I want is to stay here _,_ ” he said, firmly.

Her question had stirred shame enough, but the long, sad look she gave him before returning to her braiding was almost more than he could bear. Legolas knew that Arwen was more aware than most of his lack of romantic inclinations. She had been quite kind to him when he embarrassed himself with the failed courtship so many years prior -- her whole family had, though the tips of his ears reddened even now at the memory of being consoled by Elrond himself -- even going so far as to comfort him when he proved quite distraught over the whole affair. In retrospect, he saw in the babbled apologies he had given back then a shadow of things to come. Perhaps he had even known then, somewhere in his flawed heart, that there was something wrong with him, and had been trying to make amends for it. 

“Legolas?” Arwen asked.

“Yes?”

She seemed to consider her words. “I know the Sea-longing can be a desperate ache, and that is even never having felt it as strongly as you do. But I think you will only find more pain in contemplating ways around it that do not suit you. While you are the only person I have known who dislikes the idea of marriage so, and I certainly am not the same myself, I cannot imagine there is any peace for you in wishing yourself to be different, especially now while there is peace for you in so little else. That is all.”

Legolas’ face flushed, an uncomfortable feeling rushing through him from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his ears, this time unrelated to the Sea. In some ways, Arwen’s words were an unexpected balm to him, weary as he was of dwelling on the ways his very nature made him fit only for losing friends. He had already failed at love with Arwen, though, so hear her speak of him in a manner that rang almost of acceptance -- and certainly, as he felt her hands working with his hair, still of friendship -- alluded to some hope that perhaps the hole within his heart would not destroy his bonds with every person he held dear. Quickly, though, the flicker of hope turned to deep shame. Who was he to ask others to accept his flaws? He found he almost wanted to be angry that Arwen had cut so close to the source of so much of his pain -- it made him feel violently exposed, a reminder that he could not fully hide his failings no matter how hard he tried.

“I receive far too much pity these days, Arwen,” he finally said. “Do not add yet more fuel to that fire.”

“You have never had your father’s pride,” she replied. Though he could not see her face, he could nonetheless hear the frown in her voice. “Do not pick an ill time to gain it.”

 _Ai, it is not pride!_ he thought. _It is the opposite -- I have nothing left to me. Let me forget it._

“I am just so tired,” was all he said. He realized he was shaking -- when had that begun? Had it been this whole time? It suddenly seemed quite the chore to manage to sit straight while Arwen worked on his hair.

“I know,” she said. “I am sorry.”

His shaking must have increased visibly, an intense weakness filling his limbs accompanied by the sound of the rushing Sea, for Arwen brought him in closer to her, sitting him almost upon her lap so she could finish her work while holding him upright.

“Tell me about Eryn Lasgalen,” she said. “I know you have visited your home since the War. It is healing, is it not?”

Concentrating deeply, in the hope it might still some of his sudden spell of feebleness, Legolas tried to conjure images of the trees he had been born under -- so distant from the Sea that filled his mind. It was true they were healthier now, even as he himself grew more ill, a fact that, like so many other things rung with a note of unfairness. But Arwen had still touched upon a topic that brought him great joy as well -- he had fought for his home so long that he would have celebrated the wood’s restoration under any circumstance.

“The trees are so green now,” he said. “The oaks, the pines... I never got to see them before they darkened. I am so glad for them, Arwen. You can hear them singing.”

“Who is singing, now?” came a voice from the doorway. Both Arwen and Legolas turned their heads to see Aragorn stood there, an amused smile on his face.

“It is an elf matter,” Arwen teased him. “Quite beyond you, I should think.”

“An elf matter indeed! On the subject of elves, I have been searching for two of them, and here they are, looking quite comfortable. Do you steal my wife away from me, Legolas?”

Aragorn’s tone was jesting, likely an attempt to make light of the fact that Legolas could barely sit up without Arwen’s support, but given where his thoughts lay as of late, he could find little humor in it. His tongue fumbled with a reply, but, perhaps due to its slowness, it was Arwen who spoke up first.

“Leave him be,” she said, with in edge to her tone that caused an almost startled look to flash across Aragorn’s face. When she spoke again, though, it was far gentler. “It is not the time for such jokes.”

“I see. I am sorry, my friend,” Aragorn said, stepping into the room himself. He kneeled before the bed, taking Legolas’ hands in his own and clasping them tightly. “Do you feel particularly ill today? I have been worried by your absence.” 

Dissociated as he felt from much of the world around him, Legolas felt certain something unspoken had passed between the couple -- perhaps a glance or gesture he had missed, or could not divine the meaning of himself. He felt a pang at their closeness, and another at knowing whatever had occurred, he had been the topic of it. He hated to cause the people around him such worry.

“Ill and well as ever,” Legolas replied.

“You speak in riddles, my friend,” Aragorn said.

“I mean only to say on that I fare no better, but neither am I any worse. I am weary, but not yet gone; I ache, but have not broken under it. What would you have me say of that? I do not have better words, and I tire of searching for them.”

“Peace, I understand this must be a difficult ailment to describe -- much as it is difficult to bear, and to ease. I know it pains me to be here, a healer, and have so little to offer you in the way of healing.”

As Aragorn spoke, he gently squeezed Legolas’ hands in a gesture of comfort. In his grip, however, the elf felt almost restrained, his own guilt at imposing on his friends pressing in on him in much the same way as Aragorn’s fingers.

“I am sorry,” Legolas said.

“Make no such apologies to me,” Aragorn said. “After all, who was it who lead you to Pelargir?”

“Nay, Aragorn,” Legolas replied, “It was I who followed. It will not make me feel better for you to frame it otherwise. The War took its toll on us all, and I will not claim I suffered the worst for it.”

Arwen, who it seemed was quite focused on her work with Legolas’ hair again, now spoke, this fact not disrupting the gentle weaving of her fingers for a moment. 

“He says that he feels the cold, Aragorn,” she said. “Perhaps you, in your knowledge as a healer -- and a mortal -- know something to be done about that.”

“I still know what can be done about the cold,” Legolas said, but Aragorn looked thoughtful.

“You have an elven warrior’s knowledge of the cold,” the man said. “Of what can be done about shock, or freezing. I imagine you have less knowledge of the small comforts that make winter bearable for the rest of us. Shall I show you?”

“Show me?”

“Yes. Arwen, how go your efforts?”

“I am almost finished,” she said. “Be at peace for one moment, whatever you are planning.”

“What will you show me?” Legolas asked.

“Be at peace also,” Aragorn replied, a teasing note gracing his voice.

A moment passed before Arwen spoke again.

“Here, I am done,” she said. “Do what you will.”

With little warning, Aragorn grabbed a blanket from the bed and, wrapping it around Legolas much like the cocoon of a moth, bundled the elf into his arms. Legolas made only small sounds of protest, knowing he was in no state to resist such an action -- and in truth, appreciating the feeling of his friend’s strong grip hugging him close.

“You are light as air, my friend!” Aragorn said, his attempt at a jovial tone badly masking the surprised worry underneath. “But we shall not let you turn to it. Come, you shall wear this blanket, and I shall take you to the hall, where you will have a warm meal, also. I think you will find both hit quite different when one is feeling a chill.”

“And if I protest?” Legolas asked, a hint of a wry smile creeping across his face for the first time in many days.

“Do you?”

“Nay, I will come. Or rather, let you bring me. It is…,” Legolas paused, “...nice to be held close.”

Aragorn laughed. “Then I shall hold you the closer while we are here!”

The man began to carry him from the room, Arwen trailing behind with a smile of her own. Legolas leaned into his chest, hoping the steady beating of his friend’s heart would prove louder than the rushing of the Sea, and the warmth of his body lessen some of the numbness in his limbs. It did not serve as well as he hoped. Perhaps it was because hearts, in particular, were not something he wished to contemplate. After all, others’ could be bound more firmly -- his seemed built only for flimsier ties. 

Leaning in the tighter, Legolas restrained the urge to give another small sound of distress. The waves were simply too strong, and his walls against them too weak. As Aragorn himself said, the man would hold him him close while he and Arwen visited -- until they returned to their own home, together. And he, left behind, would have fewer to anchor himself to when they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a lot of what Legolas and Arwen discuss should be fairly self-explanatory, but in case a little extra Tolkien lore is helpful to anyone: the reason Arwen used to be familiar with the call of the Sea (before she made her choice that ended it) is because she, through both her parents (even with the nonsense that is Elrond's family), is descended from the elves who traveled to Valinor and lived there for a while before returning to Middle Earth. As a result, Noldor elves just kind of hear it their whole lives until they sail -- or in Arwen's case, exploit a very unusual loophole. This is super different from Legolas' experience, with it being something that only recently awoke for him and previously lay completely dormant. I imagine it to be sort of like the different between someone who's born with a chronic health condition vs someone diagnosed with one much later (about 500 years later...) in life -- it can be debilitating for either, but often someone new to managing it will struggle a lot more because they're not used to it, and may also find themselves mourning things being different from how they were before.
> 
> (I actually am not sure how deep into the Lore my readership is in general -- from comments I know there are at more than a few of you that are at least as familiar with Tolkien's works as I am, if not more, but this is definitely a pretty bookverse-heavy story that at times relies on having a certain amount of extracurricular knowledge. If anything about that is ever confusing, just let me know! I want it to be a story that feels accessible to everyone, even if I, personally, am mostly a books fan and like to dig into all the "extra" material as well.)
> 
> Anyways, now that I've finally gotten this chapter written I can stop procrastinating on my Halloween costume, which still needs a lot of work done before Saturday. I will lay my soul plain to you and admit exactly which character I'm dressing up as this year, although I'm sure many of you could have guessed -- Legolas is sure dominating my projects lately, it would seem! A lot of you probably already follow me on tumblr, but if you don't and you're interested in watching me yell about costume nonsense for a few days (or in seeing the final product, though I imagine it won't fully manifest until Halloween itself), my url over there is astriiformes. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, all!
> 
> EDIT: Wow, I can't believe I managed to forget one of the main things I meant to put in the author's note! The song Legolas sings in this chapter is, of course, a direct callback to the one he sings towards the end of RotK (page 234-235 in my copy). That definitely deserves a citation!


End file.
